


Awakening Storm

by Winterbell23



Series: The Tempest In His Eyes [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Blood and Violence, Child Abandonment, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, George Washington is a Dad, John Laurens Lives, M/M, Merpeople, Minor Character Death, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Washington, Revolutionary War, Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts, Washingdad, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 59,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22300498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterbell23/pseuds/Winterbell23
Summary: George Washington had convinced himself that what happened between him and that strange woman on the beach had been nothing more than the imaginations of a man who'd just about drowned after the storm that destroyed his boat. Then, months later, he sees her again, except this time she isn't alone. Raising his child - his impossible, miracle boy - at Mount Vernon alongside his eventual wife and stepchildren, he feels a protectiveness like none other awaken in him. His Alexander is a hurricane of a teenager, but as the Revolution calls for his leadership, he refuses to be left behind while his father fights... even as he begins experiencing strange phenomena and having dreams of the sea.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & Martha Washington, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, George Washington/Martha Washington, Rachel Faucette Buck/George Washington
Series: The Tempest In His Eyes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608988
Comments: 41
Kudos: 186





	1. First Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man is saved from drowning and has a mysterious encounter with the impossible.

_February, 1757_

George Washington heard the piercing crying as he walked along the shore of Chesapeake one evening. There was a chill in the air but the young soldier had wanted some air and a moment to himself to think; the beach was more often than not deserted this time of year.

His hearing was sharp so his footsteps halted the moment the sound rang out, and he looked around in confusion. 

_A baby?_

Following the sound, he reached the edge of the water where he found an infant, no older than a week or two, squirming unhappily in the frost-covered sand, and naked as the day he was born. 

The boy left out a miserable whimper.

"Oh, Good Lord!"

Without a second thought, the Colonel dropped to his knees, shrugging off his coat to fold into a makeshift blanket, and carefully lifting the fussing child onto it, wrapping him up in the warm material to shield the poor boy from the cold winter airs. He sat next to the freezing water in his waistcoat, shirt and breeches, cradling the baby to his chest in an effort to warm him as he looked around the area wildly, searching for his parents. Foolish, perhaps, for whoever would have left him like this certainly did not _care_ for the child.

But there was no one else in sight. 

He tried to gently rock the babe to and fro in an uncertain attempt to soothe him, and after a few minutes passed, he began to settle. The barest hint of a smile lifted his lips, and Washington brushed his thumb over the boy's cheek, causing the full dark lashes to flutter open suddenly. His breath caught as the blood turned to ice in his veins when the boy gazed up, unfocused, with his deep azure blue eyes. 

Bluer than the sea, even... with stormy gray rings lining the outer circle of color, but lightening nearly to violet where the innermost part of his iris met the pupil...

His head snapped up, looking out into the sea frantically, and he just barely caught a glimpse of something - a glistering silver shape that flickered in the moonlight, before disappearing beneath the surface of the water.

No, it couldn't be... she wasn't _real_.

* * *

_March, 1756_

_It all began when a storm ripped the boat apart in the night._

_Nothing was more ironic than the fact that he had gotten on the boat in the first place in an effort to distract himself from all he’d lost, his father, his mentor Braddock, his brother and niece... and now he was going to die in a storm at sea._

_They didn't have time to find port, for the nearest islands - St. Kitts and Nevis - were over a mile away when the storm hit. Nothing they did could have stopped it, as it came seemingly out of nowhere, swallowing up what had been a beautiful spring day in a matter of seconds. All they could do was try to brace for it. Fierce winds shredded the sails, and roaring waves threatened to snatch them right off the deck into a watery demise. Navigation was impossible, and they were caught in the eyewall of the worst tempest he had ever seen._

_It wasn't long until they were done for._

_The last thing he remembered before the blackness in his vision took over was the Captain ordering everyone to hold on as their ship was consumed by the gaping mouth of a nearly two-hundred-foot-tall wave._

_He didn't remember seeing his fellow shipmates screaming in terror and struggling to grab onto pieces of debris, or getting pulled under the water by... **something**. Something more than human; a flurry of teeth, claws and glistening scales in many colors, the dark red blood pooling at the surface as they were massacred in their panicked confusion. Vaguely, years later, he could recall the sensation of sinking deeper and deeper as seawater began to rapidly fill his lungs, but too stunned from the force of getting swept overboard to try swimming to the surface, and then a strong slender arm curling around his waist to haul his head up out of the water. Somebody had saved him from drowning, and he’d passed out to the sensation of fingers coming through his hair as the storm raged on around them. _

_He awoke later that same evening, bruised and battered, and soaked to the bone. Alive._

_He was warm; the Caribbean waters were mild even in the middle of of March._

_Gray blue eyes opened to find himself staring up at a full, glowing moon; hazy and beautiful as he laid on the sand beneath millions of stars._

_He could have kept staring at them all night, were it not for the sudden reminder of how he'd gotten there. A gentle wave splashed over his bare feet, with no sign of the violent storm of earlier. How did he get here? How was he even still breathing?_

_...The crew! Were they alright as well? Perhaps they'd been closer to the shore than he initially thought._

_George attempted to sit up, only for a stabbing sensation to lance through his torso. He clutched his chest in agony and laid back down, panting in pain. God Almighty, it hurt. He must have hit something when he’d gone over; perhaps he’d struck his ribcage against one of the lifeboats in the panic. Giving up for a moment, he suddenly became aware of someone beside him, when he heard humming. A soft, soothing, bell-like voice right next to him. His head turned slowly, and inhaled sharply in surprise._

_An impossibly, inhumanly beautiful face gazed back at him. A woman. Her eyes were as blue as the star-speckled night sky, and as breathtaking as the waves that had nearly ended him, almost violet in their intensity. She had skin that was rich, creamy and white like the sands that they laid upon. He immediately noticed the gold band wrapped around her upper left arm, encrusted with pearls of all color, and iridescent bits of abalone shell. Her lips were a pale blue and she had colorful grasses were braided into her inky black hair, which fell in waves down to her bare waist, only partially covering her rhythmically moving chest as she breathed._

_She was completely nude._

_"—Miss!" Somehow he managed to tear his eyes off of her long shapely limbs and look back at her face, his eyes wide with shock and a deep blush crawling across his cheeks as the twenty-four year old registered the beautiful, naked young woman laying beside him like something out of a lonely seafarer’s indecorous fantasy. She wasn't a survivor from the boat, he knew that for certain (he would have remembered if he'd ever laid eyes on her before), so why in Heaven's name..._

_Wordlessly, she cupped his cheek in the heel of her hand, a pretty little smile appeared on her breathtaking face, and his heart was suddenly pounding._

_Any question or objection he may have had to her presence died in his throat at the sound of her giggle when she saw his scandalized expression._

_Her slender fingertips stroked along his jaw in an almost teasing manner while she leaned in closer, her long black tresses brushed over his shoulders. He caught the scent of her, deep and Earthy - like orange blossoms and amber and fields of dewy grass - with the fresh and salty sting of brine, and the faintest undertone of a sharper, more pungent but also almost sweet aroma... like the odor of the atmosphere outside during a lightning storm._ _Those deep blue eyes gazed calmly back into his own as the strange girl lifted her slim leg to nestle in the sand by his thigh, seating herself upon his lap without any warning. He sucked in a sharp breath, surprised, "...W-Who are you? Can you... understand me?"_

_His voice was hoarse, but whether it was from the amount of sea water he'd swallowed or something else, he really could not say._

_Still, she did not speak._

_The hand on his face began a slow descent downwards, nimble fingers tracing the outline of his throat, before coming to a stop at the man's waistcoat. He watched, confused but utterly transfixed, as her fingernail began to morph into something curved and dangerous, like a talon, toying with the dip of the material before suddenly slashing down, tearing it and his shirt cleanly right down the middle in a single swift movement. He yelped in surprise, grabbing her wrist tightly, in a bid to get her attention, but she shrugged him off as though his strength (or what was left of it) were nothing at all._

_Both of her hands were on him now, sliding down over his chest, and he would be lying if he admitted that he didn't lean into the touch unconsciously, nipples hardening when the cool night air ghosted over his exposed flesh, causing him to shiver against the sand._

_George shuddered for another reason altogether as her hands glided down further, nails hooking behind the waistband of his breeches, dragging them down, "What are you—?!"_

_The smile on her lips was just as alluring as it was frighteningly predatory._

_He grabbed her hips with every intention of shoving the madwoman off of his person, when her dainty hands wrapped around his manhood and he squeezed his eyes shut, his body reacting to her presence even more than it already had as she teased the organ into full attention, forcing him to bite back an embarrassing whine as she shamelessly fondled him, cupping her hands around him and stroking both palms up his length simultaneously._

_“Ahh... hah...” Oh God. The man writhed and groaned under her; it had been far too long since any woman had touched him like this, and his body was greedily accepting everything despite the pain it was in._

_Opening his eyes again, he found her face mere inches from his own, and those striking eyes staring back into his own as though trying to reach into the depths of his soul. Her thumb rubbed along his bottom lip, and his mouth dropped open with a shallow moan in response. She laughed again, a delicate and charming sound that caused the color in his cheeks to burn all the more fiercely._

_Then he felt her rise up slightly, while he remained laying there, frozen in disbelief, confusion and desire as she guided the tip of his length into her womanhood, a strangled noise ripping from his throat when she sank down onto him in one graceful move, their bodies merging together as she took him into the silky heat of her body without a word._

_His hands clenched into fists at his sides, teeth digging into his bottom lip when she began to move, a husky groan leaving him._

_The soldier immediately slapped a hand up and over his mouth_ , _his mind racing._

_What was she thinking?! If—If somebody saw this..._

_George turned his head to the side, unable to think through the haze of pleasure, soft noises leaving his mouth without his permission. He hadn’t done this with anyone since before his failed marriage proposal to... to—_

_He couldn’t remember; later he would recall her name clearly but in the moment all his thoughts were consumed by his base desires, the feeling of a woman’s body against his own, the pleasure shooting up through his groin making him throw his head back and buck into the sensation instinctively, gasping._ _Still gripping her hip tightly with his free hand, his body began to shake as she rolled forward, unable to bite back the muffled groan he made when she began to move faster, and her fingers suddenly curled around his wrist, pulling it away from his mouth and pinning it above his head against the sand._

_He just clenched the hand into a fist, his cheeks burning and eyes wide as he was taken by the alluring creature._

_The strange woman fell forward, their foreheads pressed together as he began to actively participate, rocking upward to meet her motions with frantic desire, panting and moaning as she penetrated herself on him over and over again. He needed more of her, her scent, her touch, **everything**. The movements got rougher and he started to see spots, pleasure and exhaustion tingling throughout the entirety of his aching body, shivers sliding down his spine as her clawed fingertips ran down over his chest. He did not know whether she was incapable of speech, but she failed to utter a word in their... union._

_Soft noises like gasps and hums left her occasionally, proving to him that she was not mute, but she never responded to anything he said, which he was rather ashamed to admit bordered on pleading as she took him with such carnality, curses he hadn't realized he even knew spilling from his mouth as she just threw her head back, midnight dark hair spilling over her shoulders and flushed chest arching as she rode him like he was a proud stallion._

_Elbow digging into the sand, he pushed himself up partly, saw her eyes flash dangerously, but he had no intention of pushing her away. Not yet. The young man wrapped his arms around the mysterious girl, settling on his knees as pale legs winded around his waist and squeezed tightly around him, a strangled cry that he was embarrassed to admit to came tumbling out of his mouth as he slid a hand up over her back, fingers gently knotting into her hair. He pulled her into a half-starved kiss and she actually froze - startled, or perhaps merely confused by the gesture - before he felt a grin on her mouth, her nails raking down his back in a way that surely would leave cuts behind, though he couldn't bring himself to care; the stinging sensation only added to the pleasure._

_He was getting close, and so was she by the sounds of it, breathy moans now freely escaping her as she clenched around his length and rolled her pelvis down against his._

_Suddenly her body seized up, arching her back into a painful curve and all her muscles were contracting around him and he was burying his face into her heaving breast as he shuddered through his climax, spilling his seed deep inside her with a helpless choked noise._

_After that he went boneless, collapsing once again onto the sand as the lethargy and pain crept back into his limbs, now twice-fold, panting harshly, his bruised ribs throbbing as he tried to catch his breath._

_Several moments passed and she suddenly slid off of him, and he would have moved but he was just too damn tired. Her hand was on his face again and she was smiling at him, something happy shining in her eyes that he couldn't place. "Who are you? Please... tell me... what is your name?" He questioned, needing to know but having a feeling she wouldn't or simply couldn't understand him and would provide no answer._

_Proving his assumption correct, she stroked her palm along his cheek affectionately and, most confusingly, touched their noses together for a moment, before rising to her feet, shameless of her nudity nor the vulgar fluid that leaked down her inner thigh, and turned her back on him. He forced himself to raise himself up a foot off the ground and watched in stunned disbelief as she walked into waist-high water and suddenly sank into the waves, and when she began to swim deeper into the Caribbean, seeming to blend into the seafoam, and then her lower body was no more, a glittering, scaled tail in the place of the legs that had been so tightly curled around him minutes ago._

_She disappeared beneath the waves._

_Only after she was gone did he realize that all of his injuries had vanished; he felt no pain anywhere. The broken ribs, the cuts on his back, his tooth pain... Even his scars from past wounds had disappeared without a trace._

* * *

Later on, he brushed the entire event off as some bizarre hallucination he'd had while half-conscious on the shore of St. Kitts, a result of nearly drowning after a storm killed all those that were with him, and hearing too many ridiculous tales from the crew for weeks on the trip. He didn't give the incident more than a passing thought, although he did dread every rough rainstorm he heard for several months.

So that meant that the woman was real, and she had... left him a baby? 

The child had her pearly skin and rose colored cheeks, a short layer of wavy auburn hair atop his tiny head. 

_...Wait._

Auburn, just like he had... just like most of his siblings had when they were younger. 

Oh, God.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he counted back the days to that terrible storm and the dreamlike, surreal experience that had followed it. If he recalled correctly, it had been a little over ten months. _Whatever_ that girl was, she looked human enough... and she'd _wanted_ him for a reason. Had no doubt been the one to pull him to shore and prevent his death. She had then journeyed all the way from St. Kitts to Virginia to find him, somehow. To leave him a recently born child; one who had his hair and her eyes.

He wasn't staring down at an abandoned baby. 

George was staring down at his _son_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well did I squick you out as badly as I did myself? I'm so sorry, I feelt skeevy the whole time I was writing that. This story is going to be a father-son supernatural type story but I felt the need to write how Alex came to be so... this happened, oof. No more smut unless it's Alex with his (future) boyfriend though because writing this felt wrong lol. Poor George, his life just got way more complicated.


	2. Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Washington puts aside his questions for the sake of a child now dependent on him, he finds his paternal feelings over the boy growing more pronounced, and begins to consider the long term consequences of his actions (aka 1600 words of George being completely wrapped around his son's finger).

_February, 1757_

As soon as he arrived back at Mount Vernon, George set about arranging care for the boy immediately. 

The first step was clearly medical attention, for the infant had been exposed to the biting winter air for who knew how long... and possibly the sea as well, though he refused to consider the reasons for that; _stop your foolishness at once, George, creatures such as that do not exist outside of sea faring folklore and children’s imaginations_. He sent for a wet nurse as well as a reputable doctor and explained the situation (leaving out his suspicions about the child's parentage or what he had most likely hallucinated, of course). The man arrived quickly but claimed there appeared to be no symptoms of anything being wrong with the baby, despite the chill in his skin. In fact, once he was warmed by the fire for a short period of time, he began to fuss with discomfort and show signs of overheating. As soon as he was moved to another room he was fine once more. 

George was completely baffled. 

He did not know what to do with the child. 

If the boy was, in fact, his own, then claiming him now would only harm them both; the child was motherless and, as Washington was unmarried, there would be no doubts of what that meant for him, he would be ridiculed and hated for his status as a bastard. However... if he presented the child as a foundling, that was another story. It wouldn't be difficult to pass him off as a ward he had taken in on the behest of a deceased friend or acquaintance. The boy could grow up in comfort, not as one of many homeless, hungry orphans that walked the streets, ostracized. He would be well cared for, and George... he could have a relationship with his son, even if only in privacy. 

His decision was made then; he would 'adopt' this abandoned boy, and perhaps in many years time reveal the child's parentage to him, leave him an inheritance that would give him a fair chance at crafting his own way, a legacy to be proud of in lieu of having the Washington name. 

As if somehow knowing that George was thinking of him, the boy began to squirm and whimper. 

The man sighed. 

He had opted to keep the baby in his quarters for the time being, as he had not had the time that evening to search for a nanny, although he would need to at some point. 

Deciding against ringing for a servant at this hour, he pushed aside the bed covers and rose, making his way across the room to the cradle where the child was loosely tucked beneath a cotton blanket, "Now, now, none of that. What troubles you so late, little one?" 

Almost immediately, the boy's agitation ceased, and he made a few softer noises, though they were just as nonsensical as his cries.

"Is my company so desirable to you, then?" He inquired, leaning over the side of the bed to get a better look. To his astonishment, the baby lifted his hand in the air as if searching for the source of the voice, as his soft lilac blue eyes were not yet strong enough to focus on George's face directly. He was under the impression that most children did not begin to reach for their parents until the second or third month of life. Perhaps this boy was meant to be an overachiever, then.

"Very well." He murmured, bending down further so that he could lift him into his arms, carefully resting his head in the crook of his arm. 

Knowing if he laid back down he was likely to fall asleep, he settled into the nearby rocking chair. 

"I suppose it is my responsibility to give you a name, hmm?" He pondered his options, looking down at the boy who had within a day not only managed to worm his way into Washington's home, but his own arms even. "John and William are both strong names, but so increasingly common... I don't dare name you after myself, it would be an immediate give away; and I've always found those that do so to lack in creativity. I suppose I could name you after my father or brother." But no, even he had to admit that the child did not look like an 'Augustine' or a 'Lawrence' whatsoever. The boy's face scrunched up in an odd expression, as if expressing his own dislike for that. 

He couldn't help but laugh, "Opinionated boy, aren't you? Perhaps a name from the Greeks, like my own, then. Their sons are named to give them the character they hope they will adopt as men, or so I am told." He mused to himself, if only because hearing his voice seemed to keep the infant calm. "...Would you find the name 'Alexander' to be more agreeable?" George asked, and as though on cue, the child let out a peal of bell-like giggles and stuffed a tiny fist into his mouth, blinking sleepily and curling into the man's chest, leaving a strange warmth spreading through him. 

"Alexander it is, then."

* * *

_August 1757_

It would be a lie if he said that, during the first couple of months after bringing the boy home, that George didn't read absolutely every book pertaining to early childhood development that he could get his hands on; he was hardly an expert on the subject and he wanted to know for certain how Alexander was growing, whether he was healthy and at the physical and intellectual stage that he ought be. 

There was some worry, at first, because of how quiet, other than the occasional fussing, his son could be. He’d spent enough time around the youngest children in his family to know that babies screamed and cried, sometimes for no discernible reason. Alexander’s silence concerned him; what if his mother’s abandonment had wounded him emotionally? Had he been damaged by the exposure to the cold after all? Was there something wrong with his son?

As it turned out, there wasn't.

Just a week before he turned seven months old, Alexander, who was in the room while Washington was writing a response to an acquaintance of his, decided he needed his father's attention, _immediately_. Instead of crying or babbling as he usually would have when in need of something, he smacked his hands on the edge of his cradle and, when the man glanced up to see what the noise was about, the boy looked directly at him and said (in a rather _demanding_ tone, no less), "Papa!"

He may have knocked over the ink pot in his surprise.

"Papa! Papa!"

Tears stung at the Colonel's eyes as Alexander started chanting the word and laughing at his reaction as he thumped his chubby little fists against the cradle.

It was not the first time his son had spoken something vaguely resembling that word, but it was the first occasion where he'd looked _directly_ at George and clearly and concisely spoke it while addressing him for attention.

To the bemusement of himself and his staff, once Alexander decided he wanted to talk, he _would not stop_.

* * *

_October, 1757_

His boy _was_ a fast learner.

Washington realized this for the first time when he returned from a short trip to visit his mother in Fredericksburg. 

It was good to be able to see her again (though he could have done without the usual guilt trips; both himself and Elizabeth as well as their brothers had repeatedly made offers to help her settle into a home closer to one of them which she continuously and steadfastly refused), but he had to admit, the week spent with her had nearly been cut short several times due to the feelings of anxiety he'd had the majority of the time he was gone.

So it was with an eagerness that almost surprised himself when, as soon as his valet had slowed the carriage to a standstill, he was out and crossing the grounds of Mount Vernon, towards the Palladian-style house, when he heard a familiar laugh from the gardens that instantly loosened the knot he'd carried in his chest for the entirety of the ride home. 

He quickly located the source and found Alexander, now eight and a half months old, being entertained by Sophia, the French-born caretaker he had hired to look after his son; because she had taken to the boy almost immediately after meeting him, he'd entrusted her to watch over him while he was gone. While he'd had some concerns (many concerns, actually) about leaving him _at all_ , the boy had seemed to be equally charmed by the young lady, and he'd reasoned that perhaps care from a woman already a mother would be emotionally beneficial to the child. 

She spotted him as he approached the large white oak which they were sitting under, and, smiling, reached for the boy to turn him around, facing George, he could just make out what she was saying, "Who is that, huh? Who is it? Is it a stranger?"

His son let out a shriek of delight and started flailing his hands at the sight of him, struggling to reach him. " _Non!_ Not a stranger, it is your _Papa_ , yes?" The boy babbled something that might have been an agreement or a demand to be let go as he neared them, and she did so, "Go on and get him then! Show him what we practiced!" To his complete and utter shock, the boy grabbed hold of Sophia's arm and, pulling himself up on two wobbling legs with her support, he started forward, shakily at first, stumbling more than once, but he didn't stop. He kept walking, one step, and then another, and another.

" _Alexander_." Dropping to one knee without much thought, he reached out towards him, and the boy broke out into the most brilliant of smiles and _ran_ , right into Washington's waiting arms.

He caught Alexander before he could trip on the final few steps and pulled him in close, pressing a kiss to the top of his sun-warmed auburn curls as the child grabbed a hold of his neck and squeezed him back in return. 

The pride swelling up inside of him was something he'd _never_ felt in his twenty five years on this Earth.

If he had any doubt before, now he knew that he would do absolutely anything to give this boy the happiness and upbringing that he deserved. Alexander was special, completely independent of the unusual circumstances behind his conception. Not even a year old and he was already running, speaking and demanding attention in a way children his age simply didn't until much later.

His son was going to be extraordinary, and he couldn't wait to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, unlike a lot of fanfics involving Washington, I will not be shying away from the fact that Washington owned slaves. Whether he treated them well, or at least better than fellow upperclassmen did, may be a historical fact but it was still slavery nonetheless, so there will be mentions of them from time to time. 
> 
> Alexander will likely have a talk/argument about it with him at some point eventually once he’s older but I’ll probably give hints to his distain for slavery here and there while he’s a kid, I haven't decided, but... just a warning. 
> 
> GW may not have been a horrible evil man brandishing a whip, but he wasn't perfect, even being progressive for the time he lived in, his thoughts and beliefs will be slightly off/uncomfortable from a modern POV, and my story will reflect that. Just a fair warning to people who might get upset by such talk in future chapters. It won't be graphic, no more than the play was whenever Laurens spoke/sang about it, but it'll be there just so you know!
> 
> On a happier note, his feelings on forced servitude noticeably changed after the Revolutionary war, from the Wikipedia article on the topic of GW and slavery: "The historian Kenneth Morgan writes, "..the revolutionary war was the crucial turning-point in [Washington's] thinking about slavery. After 1783...he began to express inner tensions about the problem of slavery more frequently, though always in private..." Although Philip Morgan identifies a number of turning points and believes no single one was pivotal, most historians agree the Revolution was central to the evolution of Washington's attitudes on slavery. It is likely that revolutionary rhetoric about the rights of men,[g] the close contact with young antislavery officers who served with Washington – such as Laurens, the Marquis de Lafayette and Alexander Hamilton – and the influence of northern colleagues were contributory factors in that process."
> 
> So, yeah, prepare for Alex and his friends to be salty about George's "business", and them influencing his opinion over time, because while I want to remain true to them overall, this is still historical fiction and making Alex his son is already "non canon" so I can have him slowly becoming a better person/an abolitionist due to having a son who opposes slavery. Feel free to leave your opinion on this, I'm always grateful to constructive critics and helpful suggestions!


	3. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Washington family begins to grow, George realizes the inherit heartbreak of any parent who has nearly lost their child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Semi-graphic description of near-drowning and CPR, so if you have a phobia of the water or anything like that, you may want to skip this.

_March, 1758_

Shortly before his son’s first birthday, George was granted legal authorization to take Alexander in as a foundling child.

Despite it being practically unheard of in the Colonies, he was now recognized as his father, albeit not biologically. He knew people would talk as the word got out, they would claim the boy was his illegitimate child taken in for pity, but he had the forethought to cast reasonable doubt by bringing the doctor who had tended to his son the night he was discovered, with him. He testified the half-frozen condition the baby had been in when George sent for him, seen the sand in his hair and the frostiness of his skin. 

To anyone not preoccupied with mindless gossip, this would be enough evidence that Alexander had, indeed, been an orphaned child. There would be speculation on his origins, no doubt, but at the very least he would be spared the title of a bastard who was taken in not out of love, but pity. It was the worst kept secret of society that if a man fathered a bastard child, then taking him in as a ward or young servant was a way to provide for him or her without openly acknowledging his indiscretions. 

Frankly, the idea of innocent babes being punished for the sins of their parents left a bad taste in his mouth. 

If, one day, he told the boy the truth and he wished Washington to claim him as his blood child, he would, but for now this was the best he could do. 

Thinking of his boy always brought on that indescribable warmth in his chest, something beyond pride, beyond words even. 

Alexander was growing up far too quickly for the Colonel's liking. 

Now that he could steadily walk and run on his own without falling (usually), the boy needed a close eye kept on him by someone at all times, he was always on the move. It wasn't an unusual occurrence for him to be in his study and suddenly hear the shrieking laughter of his child as he ran passed the open door, Sophia hot on his heels and gently scolding him in her native tongue. 

Before, he would have laughed at the idea of being a father at his age. 

Now, well... he had to admit, the sound of small footsteps running around on the mansion floors left him in spirits as light as they'd been when Lawrence was still with him.

* * *

It was early into the spring of ‘58 when he began courting Martha Daindridge officially, who was widowed in mid summer of the previous year. 

She was beautiful, charming, and accomplished, not to mention wealthy in her own right. 

They knew each other from shared social circles, but as she had been married, he had only ever interacted with her on a formal level, having been acquaintances with both her and her husband Daniel. It was hearing the news that actually gave him pause to consider his own marriage prospects. She was twenty five at the time, and seeking out a new husband already. He was at an age where many men were already spoken for, engaged at the least if not married. Many of the friends he had while growing up were partnered with already two or three children of their own. 

Washington had never considered himself a lonely man, certainly not now with Alexander to brighten his days, but he'd been too busy serving His Majesty's army to consider relationships... 

Seeking a spouse was not an unbearable idea.

As long as they were well-matched and she was not unkind to his son, he didn't see why he shouldn't marry.

Martha had two children of her own from her previous marriage; a three, almost four year old boy named Jacky, and his little sister, two year old Martha Jr., or Patsy as she was often called by Ms Daindridge. 

The businesswoman was rather upfront with her desires when he made his intentions clear; she wanted to marry for love. She had no need to seek out a man of status or wealth, and that while she would love to have more children (having tragically lost a son and daughter already), there was no possibility of her neglecting her current children for the sake of, as she put it, "a man's ego" regardless of if her next husband fathered more children with her, as women were at times expected to do so after remarriage. 

He was completely fine with that, and she seemed to soften up towards him when he mentioned Alexander. 

They became engaged shortly after he visited her on her birthday and presented her with a French leather jewelry box. Nestled within were a set of two fine silver combs embellished with small seed-shaped, wine-colored stones to form a flower on the outside side of each one. He had purchased them specifically with her in mind after discovering she had a fondness for garnets.

Introducing the children to each other had been an...interesting day; Jacky had immediately wanted to explore the grounds of Mount Vernon while Patsy was content to follow behind Martha, shyly hiding her face and gripping her mother’s skirts for comfort. Amusingly enough, upon being introduced to the girl, his now almost two-year-old son took little Martha's hand and kissed it, like he had seen his father do with the girl's mother. At their age, he was certain neither of them understood what it even meant; they were just mimicking what they saw their parents do. It was still absurdly adorable, however.

As suitable of a match as he was certain they would be, George had to admit to himself he wasn't sure he could call it _love_. Martha was an agreeable partner, but marriage was a business arrangement; people of their status did not have the luxury of marrying for purely emotional reasons.

Seeing her walk confidently down the aisle - a vision in her stunning yellow and cream silk gown, purple and silver shoes and the garnet combs he had given her adorning her hair beautifully - it stirred feelings of doubt in him that their reserved, somewhat platonic partnership would remain that way for long.

Martha and he were married on January 6th, 1759.

* * *

_August, 1762_

"Look, Papa, look! It's a sunfish!" 

George leaned forward next to where Alexander was peering over the edge of the little sailboat, and grinned at the glittering silver scales of the fish as it swam away. "Indeed it is, very astute, my boy." 

Patsy suddenly popped up next to her stepfather just in time to catch a glimpse before it disappeared into deeper waters. "Aww, it's pretty!" 

"I want to eat it!" His son announced, and he laughed; the child never hesitated to say _exactly_ what was on his mind. 

The dark-haired girl whined, "Nooooo don't eat it, Alex!" 

It was a lovely day just at the end of summer, so Martha had suggested to him that they take the children and a picnic out for a lunchtime boat ride on the Potomac, which had of course excited the six year old and the five-and-a-half year old; Jacky, who would be eight years old in a couple of months time, feigned a lack of interest but almost immediately upon boarding the small vessel, he was engaging Alexander in a game of "pirates", so clearly he wasn't that disappointed at being 'forced' to come along with them. 

"Mamma, can we have fish for dinner? Please?" Alex asked hopefully, turning around to sit properly in his seat. 

George and Martha exchanged a quick look and a smile. 

"Of course we can, sweetheart... just not the Sunfish. We did not bring any fishing equipment with us, after all."

While the Washingtons were perfectly content with their blended family, and Martha was Alex's mother in everything but blood, they knew eventually the boy was going to overhear the wrong thing or read something mentioning their marriage occurring after he was born, and put the pieces together or ask them directly. It wasn't an issue that occurred to them at first; Patsy and Jacky referred to George as their father, he was the only paternal figure they could remember, and the same was true with his son and Martha. The difference was, they were _aware_ that George was their stepfather (the different surnames gave it away), they just didn't care.

Alex was an incredibly bright young boy; he would read whatever was placed in front of him, up to and including books and literature intended for a reader almost twice his years, he was quick to understand and highly perceptive. He was intelligent enough to speak in grammatically correct full sentences and understand - and even be _angry_ \- when adults were condescending towards him. But he was also oblivious to the fact that, by law, George was his guardian and not his biological father, even if the man knew in his heart that they were blood. Sometimes he considered sheltering the boy less, telling him the truth, but then he remembered that crying baby abandoned on the freezing beach by what may or may not have been his mother...

...and he simply couldn't do it.

Gifted or not, his boy was just a _baby_ , his feelings at his age were just as easily wounded as any five-year-old's, he would protect his heart for as long as he possibly could, from the reality that people treated children without married, biological parents differently. Badly. 

How did you tell a child his mother hadn't wanted him?

Besides, Alexander had never inquired about his mother; he saw no reason not to allow him to continue enjoying his innocence for as long as possible, until he noticed his brother and sister did not share his surname, and that he looked nothing like Martha. Things were going well now, they were _happy_. He wanted to keep it that way, if he could, until Alex was old enough to process it all with a matured mind. 

There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for his son.

* * *

The storm came out of nowhere. 

If it hadn't been for Martha's hand gripping his arm, grounding him to reality, he would have sworn he was back on that damned ship all over again, getting flung over the side and watching his shipmates get attacked, torn to shreds by some sort of... monster. 

But there was no monster this time, just a viscous wind and waves that were getting more dangerous by the second as the water grew rough and choppy, and it began raining profusely. 

He warned his family to hold onto each other, and tried to get the sails under control; it felt like the wind was going to tear them to shreds. 

It was only the second time George had ever seen a storm roll in so quickly.

Patsy was getting scared, clutching onto her mother for dear life whenever the boat hit a particularly large wave and sent them rocking in their seats, Jacky was the oldest and, after several objections from his stepfather, was finally permitted to help. 

"Mamma! Look! There's something in the water!" Alexander yelled excitedly over the roaring sound of waves, his auburn curls whipping around his face in the fierce wind. Unlike his sister's outright terror and his brother's uneasy determination, he didn't seem frightened in the least, more exhilarated than anything, as if the danger of the storm was completely lost on him. "Do you see it?" He asked in a delighted tone, though Martha didn't listen, her gaze locked on her husband and seeing the growing panic as he wrestled with the sails. 

Lightning suddenly cracked in the distance and George froze for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest; they needed to get out of the water _now_. 

He swore and abandoned the sails, grabbing the oars in an effort to fight against the wind and get them to safety.

"Mamma! Papa, look! Do you see it, do you see—" A huge wave, bigger than the others, suddenly rocked their small sailboat, and three things happened simultaneously; they were all suddenly drenched, deafening thunder boomed amidst the background noise, and Alexander _screamed_ as the force tore him away from his stepmother's grasp.

George whipped around in his seat just as the wave flung their ship a foot or more into the air before it hit the water again and—

 _No_.

He pushed his soaked hair out of his face and ran to his wife, who had gone pale as death, and the look of horror dawning on her face as she realized one of her arms were now empty would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

_Oh God, no._

"ALEXANDER!" The man looked frantically over the edge of the boat and saw not a _damn thing_ , no sign of his little boy. 

The storm had snatched him away from them without a second thought.

_No, no, please, no._

Jacky and Patsy were yelling now too, crying; they weren't so young that they didn't understand what had just happened.

There was a sudden surge of adrenaline pounding through his entire being as he tore his jacket off and threw it aside, his shoes came next, the heaviest things he was wearing. Inhaling a deep breath, he took a running jump off the side of the sailboat and dove under. His son didn't know how to swim yet. Most people could hold their breath for 1-2 minutes, if they tried. But without knowing what was about to happen, Alex wouldn't have reflexively held his breath; he was more likely to have gulped down water in his shock of being tossed overboard without meaning to. 

Shoving the implication away violently, he searched for his boy, dove deeper in his distress, forced his eyes open in an effort to catch a glimpse of him. 

_Please, God, not my boy._

Inky blackness, he couldn't see anything. 

_Don't take my son away from me._

He had to come back up, the burning in his lungs too painful to ignore; he took a deep, agonizing breath and held it before going back down again. 

_I have to find him!_

The terror fueled him, made him push himself harder than he normally could have, as he searched for anything, any sign that his child was still alive. 

Several times his head emerged just to take another gasping, desperate breath before trying again. 

By the fourth time he'd come up he was crying, horrible ragged sounds escaping his chest as he helplessly struggled to keep himself afloat while wanting nothing more than for the sea to take him too. It was for the best, anything other than having to face the world knowing his little boy would never laugh or smile among the living again. 

Through blurred vision he caught a flicker of something, he didn't know what... a faint glow that could have been an oxygen starved hallucination. 

Washington, ignoring his wife screaming his name, forced his head back under one final time, the stinging pain in his eyes barely noticeable as he paddled his sore, throbbing arms, pushing himself, _down down down_.

A pale face suddenly entered his line of sight, eyes and mouth wide open. 

The newfound surge of energy when he spotted Alexander was like a jolt, a shock to his system, he thrust himself forward and snagged the boy by the waist, kicking frantically to push them upwards, his arms numb with exhaustion as their heads broke the surface and he dragged his son up out of the water by the back of his jacket, vaguely aware of Martha and Jacky reaching to pull him on board once Alexander was safe too. 

He wanted to collapse, but he couldn't. 

Alexander wasn't _breathing_. 

The man crawled to where his son was laid out on the floor of the boat, colorless and unmoving, and fumbled to pull the jacket down off his shoulders and press two fingers to his neck. He still had a heart beat; it was weak but all that mattered was that he still had one at all. _Hang in there, Baby, you're okay. You're going to be okay._ George started pushing down on his chest, wet hair hanging in his face, his mind laser-focused on the dying boy beneath him. He tilted his son's chin and, gently pinching his nose shut, breathed into his mouth.

One, two, three, four, five. Pressed his head against his chest.

 _Please, son, don't do this to me._ He tried it again, pressing down on his chest over and over again as if his own life depended on it (it may as well have, he couldn't fathom it, having to bury him, not his boy). 

_Pinch, 1-2-3-4-5 breaths, listen. Chest compression. Pinch, 1-2-3-4-5 breaths, listen. Compression._

"Damn it, Alexander! Breathe!" He shouted hoarsely, and kept trying. 

He heard a snap under his fingers, his heart breaking in his chest as he realized he'd just cracked one of his child's bones in his efforts, most likely his rib or breastbone.

Then everything else faded from his thoughts as his son suddenly took in a strangled gasp, and began to choke. 

Martha, who had been diligently holding Alexander's head with tears pouring down her cheeks, helped George turn the boy onto his side as he vomited up water from the Potomac, several cups full at least, and he was struggling and wheezing for air and crying; whether from the pain or the fear he didn't know, but soon he'd brought everything up, his tiny hand had a death grip on the man's wrist as he panted, wet eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he moaned and coughed. 

He didn't notice it at the time; but the storm had ceased; sun beginning to shine through the clouds. 

George cradled his boy in his arms the entire way to shore.

By the time they hit the dock he had his face pressed against Alexander's thin chest, listening to the sounds of his pained but still very much there breaths as his whole body shook with silent sobs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably pretty obvious I'm not an expert in CPR; I honestly Wikihow'd this tbh; I also tried to avoid using modern terms. While mouth to mouth and forms of chest compressions to aid in drowning victims and restarting hearts have existed for hundreds of years, terms like Heimlich, CPR, and mouth-to-mouth as its called today haven't been around nearly as long.
> 
> So George knows what he's doing, it's just they had different terms and understanding of what we now know to be life-rescuing attempts. 
> 
> So, yeah, forgive any incorrect info (but please feel free to let me know so I can go back and edit it), and remember, unless you're a character from a 1700s historical play, never attempt CPR on someone without first calling 911 or getting some help on the line first.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Next up: the consequences of Alex's little dip.


	4. Safe & Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington swallowed thickly at the sight of the reddish-pink patch of skin on his son's chest where a large bruise was beginning to develop, it was a bit swollen and tender looking, and while he knew it was a result of his own guilt, he could swear he saw the shape of his hand outlined on his fair skin. 
> 
> Even though it was to save his life, he couldn’t ignore the ache he felt realizing he had harmed his son, however unintentionally, that he had left marks on his tiny body. It felt wrong.

_August, 1762_

As soon as they were home, Martha put on dry clothing and had the valet ready the carriage. 

Their son needed medical attention. 

He carried Alexander up to his bedroom while Sophia took Jacky and Patsy to theirs to help them change out of their wet clothes before they could catch something. 

Laying the boy down on his bed, George quickly but carefully removed his soaking wet clothing, with only the occasional groan from Alexander. Taking off his shirt was more difficult because he had to lift his son's arms, and that in turn caused him discomfort. At one point he opened his eyes partially and mumbled, "Papa, my chest hurts." He hushed him and smoothed Alexander's hair back until he eventually drifted off again, and despite the fact that it was mild, the five-year-old was shivering, so he put him in a dry shirt and tucked him under a layer of blankets to reduce his chills, and sat by his side with a hand wrapped around his tiny one, listening to the sound of his pained breaths, just to remind himself that he _was_ breathing.

A little under an hour later, Martha came rushing back in with a doctor behind her; he was a tall bespectacled gentleman in his mid to late thirties or so with sharp gray eyes and long pale blond hair tied at the nape of his neck; he carried a leather satchel and had a rather urgent expression on his face, taking in the sleeping boy on the bed. 

"George, this is Doctor Viktor Arason, he's a physician that practices medicine in Alexandria." Martha introduced them, her hand moving to take Washington's as he stood up and stepped aside so the man could have a look at their child. 

The blankets were peeled back to the middle of Alexander's waist, an action which awoke him, lashes fluttering open to reveal deep blue eyes, "...Papa? Mamma? What's happening?" 

He opened his mouth to explain, but the doctor beat him to it, "Hello. Alexander, is it?" When the auburn haired child nodded slowly, he smiled and patted his leg, "It's nice to meet you, my name is Viktor. Your mother brought me here so I could have a look at you. I heard you were caught in a terrible storm. Can you tell me where you're hurting?" A glance in George's direction prompted a nod from the man, and he seemed to relax a little bit. "It hurts right here, Sir, in my chest." he pointed at his chest, a little right of the center. "A-and my throat... where I swallowed the water. I think I may have a fracture."

Dr. Arason appeared to be a bit bewildered by how well-spoken the young boy was, but he moved on quickly. "I see, that is unfortunate isn’t it? I'm going to have a look at you and then we will see what can be done about the pain, okay?" Once he knew Alexander wouldn't be startled and jostle himself, he pulled the youth's shirt up to his shoulders, leaving the majority of his torso exposed. 

Washington swallowed thickly at the sight of the reddish-pink patch of skin on his son's chest where a large bruise was beginning to develop, it was a bit swollen and tender looking, and while he knew it was a result of his own guilt, he could _swear_ he saw the shape of his hand outlined on his fair skin. 

Even though it was to save his life, he couldn’t ignore the ache he felt realizing he had harmed his son, however unintentionally, that he had left marks on his tiny body. It felt _wrong_.

The blond man gently prodded at the spot for a bit, feeling along the boy's breastbone and then his ribs on either side; Alexander let out a cry when he put even the lightest amount of pressure at the center of the area that was beginning to bruise, tears springing in his eyes that left his parents gripping each other’s hand for support. Their brave child simply stiffened his lip and wiped away the tears with the back of his hand, not uttering a word of complaint.

Arason asked the boy to take a deep breath for him while he listened to his chest, and then let it go, but all Alexander could manage was a short inhale before a whimper of pain left the five-year-old. 

Once the doctor had finished his examination, Martha helped readjust Alexander's nightshirt and tucked him back under his blankets while George stepped outside into the hall to speak with the man. 

"Your son should be just fine, Sir," He said almost immediately, watching as the man nearly sagged with relief. "He appears to have a broken rib on the upper right side, which will cause bruising, swelling and pain there for the first week or so. The swelling will eventually go down on its own but you can expect some soreness and bruising in the following month while he begins to heal. I recommend nothing more than plenty of rest and engaging in minimal physical activity until the bone has the chance to mend itself." He removed a tied little pouch from his satchel and handed it to George. "If his pain is bothering him significantly and he can't sleep or has difficulty breathing through it during the daylight hours, a couple spoonfuls of this tincture mixed into a cup of warm water or tea should help ease his symptoms and allow him to rest more easily, but no more than two doses a day if you can avoid it." 

He took the powder and rolled it between his fingers, "Pardon my impertinence, but may I ask what—" 

"It's ground up willow tree bark, meadsweet and java grass papyrus." He answered before Washington could finish his question, a small smile on his lips when he saw the ex-military man’s expression, "I have a daughter about your boy's age, I would not give her an opiate either unless I absolutely had to. This is a perfectly natural remedy comprised of ingredients that have been used for thousands of years in medicine, Sir, I assure you. Hippocrates swore by it." 

George visibly relaxed, and nodded, "I can't thank you enough, come with me and I will compensate you for the trouble, Doctor."

"It was my pleasure, and please, call me Viktor. I hope next time we meet will be under more pleasant circumstances, but do not hesitate to send for me if you or your family require anything further." 

* * *

Surprisingly, his son didn't throw a fit upon being told he had been prescribed bed rest until he had recovered enough.

It was around eight-thirty in the evening when he went upstairs to check on Alexander, who had refused to eat earlier when Sophia had attempted to bring his meal up to him. He knew the boy wasn't feeling good, pain did nothing to encourage one's appetite, but he was not about to let him go all night with an empty stomach; a lack of nutrition would only delay his body's attempts at healing itself, after all. 

That was why he ended up dismissing Sophia for the evening after the other children were put to bed and had the cooks prepare something a bit lighter for him. 

He carried the tray to his son's bedroom, and found the boy laying in his bed with a book tucked against his chest, staring absently at the wall and tracing the yellow rose design on his bedspread. He assumed Alexander hadn't gone to sleep yet because the nanny often read to him before he went to bed, and he was waiting for her. Hearing the tap on the door before it opened, he lifted his head, and looked surprised that it was his father who entered the room instead of the woman he had been expecting. 

"Hello, Father..." Alexander greeted quietly, and the phrasing took him off guard for a moment, as his son never called him that. He chalked it up to the fact that the young lad wasn't feeling well. 

Offering him a small smile, he set the silver tray down on the mahogany side table, "Good evening, Alexander. How are you feeling?"

The boy shrugged, or attempted it at least, and George could see the _immediate_ regret on his face as he no doubt felt the pain of his broken rib shoot up through the connecting bones as a result. "...I'm okay." He mumbled; the fact that he spoke so few words was a rather tell-tale sign that he wasn't, however.

He took a seat at the child's bedside, "Is something on your mind, son? You look troubled." 

Normally, one didn't speak so directly towards children, but he'd learned time and time again that Alexander was no ordinary boy; he was _brilliant_ , he'd been speaking in full sentences at the age of three, was constantly curious about everything around him, and had already declared his desire to learn Spanish, in addition to the French that Sophia was so keen on teaching him, after overhearing a guest of theirs speaking it. He didn't discuss adult matters with the boy, but he no longer felt the need to oversimplify his manner of speech when talking to him; Alexander would pick up on it and throw the mother of all fits if he felt someone thought he was too stupid to understand them.

As he had put it several months ago, _"I would rather ask what someone means than have them trivialize their words for my sake, Sir."_

On more than one occasion Martha had pulled him aside and asked if he was certain their son was only five. 

He was, but regardless, George could unfortunately not take credit for the boy's incredible mind; he was never one for eloquent speech, and even at his age he did not possess the striking wit his son did. All of the man's skills came from experience and many, many mistakes which he had to learn from, whereas Alexander just appeared to be a naturally bright, precocious boy. He supposed it could have come from his mother, but he still wasn't entire certain she could speak at all, or at least not any language he understood. No, he believed his son's mind was all his own; it certainly helped that he constantly had his nose in a book, treaty or paper of some sort, reading at such a rapid pace that most had trouble believing he was actually absorbing everything on the pages... 

Until they heard him speak, that is. 

Alexander was a very elegant speaker, and his childish moments were few and far between, most days. 

Which was why he was all the more surprised when the young lad's eyes suddenly filled with tears, "I-I'm sorry... I'm sorry I ruined our day out, Papa!" 

George felt his heart sink, and he was up and moving to the edge of the bed in moments, "Oh Alexander... Alex... _no_. My dear boy..." He wrapped his arms around his son and gently pulled him to his chest, careful not to put any pressure against his right side. It was so easy to forget, with how fiercely intelligent and independent the boy was, that he was _still_ just a child, subject to the same fears and misunderstandings as any other his age. The fact that he was injured in a terribly traumatic experience would not have helped - by blaming himself, Alexander put control over that near death experience in his own hands, which made it less frightening in his mind, no doubt - but he didn't deserve the guilt he was clearly feeling. "You didn't ruin anything, love. It was the storm, remember? We would have had to leave for our own safety. You did nothing wrong, and thus have no reason to apologize." He promised, running his fingers through Alexander's hair comfortingly. 

It took a few minutes, but eventually the fat tears rolling down his face slowed and his crying died down into quiet sniffles. 

Not releasing the boy until he was sure he was soothed, George fixed Alexander's blankets and handed him Bonnie, the name he'd given to the stuffed rabbit Martha had given him after seeing it displayed in a seamstress' shop window, it was a floppy eared thing, a patchwork cotton plush with all different patterns and colors. Alexander never went to bed without it. 

"I know you don't have much of an appetite, son, but I need you to try to eat something for me, okay?" He moved the tray onto Alexander's lap once he was propped up with the spare pillows that decorated his bed. It was just a simple meal, a small bowl of beef and vegetable stew and some bread, as well as a steaming cup of tea he intended to mix the medicine from Doctor Arason into in order to help him sleep. 

Alexander had a noticeable grimace on his face at the thought of swallowing anything after the day he'd had, and he patted the boy's leg sympathetically, "Would it help if I read to you while you ate?" He suggested, and Alexander perked up a bit, reaching for the book he had been holding onto earlier. 

Taking it in hand, he read the cover out loud, "Arabian Nights?"

He had... some _concerns_ ; but at least Sophia had the forethought to read him the child appropriate version. 

His son’s smile eased some of the guilt he'd been carrying all evening as he opened the book to the marked page, and Alexander hugged the bunny tightly to him, nibbling on a piece of bread as his father began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I KNOW I likely got some shit wrong with the doctor's visit. I tried, I spent like... two hours reading PDFs about broken ribs and past treatments and stuff but could find no answer on A) How broken ribs were diagnosed before the 1900s, B) WHEN exactly doctors realized that taping/wrapping broken ribs could cause Pneumonia or permanently change/restrict your breathing in the future, and C) What the prescribed 'treatment' for fractures in the 1750s-1800 was, because the Internet is stupid and just gives me results with whatever key words match best instead of real answers. 
> 
> So, I'm just gonna pretend doctors figured out a lot earlier that taping ribs = bad for you, which is probably untrue because women were still wearing corsets back then which is very dangerous, but whatever. It's my story I can do what I want, especially when Google won't help me, lol.
> 
> Note regarding clothing: When it came to boys and men, they usually slept in their underwear or their shirts, which were long enough to reach the knee. Also they were pull-overs; shirts buttoned at the collar and sometimes the sleeves but you typically had to pull them on over your head.
> 
> Also for anyone disappointed that the angst didn't last longer, don't worry, there'll be some complications in the next chapter! Bonus points to anyone who can guess what's going to go wrong!


	5. Bad To Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His poor boy had gone through so much already, he didn't deserve this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't read this while eating if your stomach turns easily; I didn't shy away from the description about congestion!

_September, 1762_

Six days after the incident on the water, Alexander woke up feeling absolutely _dreadful_. 

After he had been looked at by Doctor Arason and told to take it easy, the boy hadn’t been allowed to leave his room except for trips to relieve himself, and once when he’d begged Papa to let him go downstairs and play a round of Draughts with him in the parlor; it didn’t last long, he’d fallen asleep in the middle of the third game and had to be returned to bed. 

He was uneasy, knew something wasn't right even before he'd opened his eyes. 

With a frown, the young boy slowly sat up and had to stifle a cry as he was all at once overwhelmed with pain.

There was a sharp, stabbing sensation in his head, and similar shooting pains throughout the rest of his body, not to mention the burning in his throat. All he wanted was to call for his parents but a glance at the clock told him they would already be having breakfast by now. Biting his lip and slowly scooting to the edge of his bed, Alexander slid down until his feet touched the ground and he was standing. Unfortunately it seemed like even that was too much for his small body to handle for the moment and his legs nearly gave out under him, his vision suddenly became unfocused and he grabbed the small table next to his bed so he wouldn't fall.

Even through the haze that had settled over his brain, the child could tell something was terribly wrong.

He needed to get help.

But which way should he take?

[Their home](https://www.mountvernon.org/the-estate-gardens/the-mansion/the-mansion-room-by-room/) actually had two staircases that led to the second floor; the first one was the [main stairs](https://mtv-main-assets.mountvernon.org/files/callout/text-image-block-full/image/sml_central-passage_rhp.jpg) which were just a few feet away from the main entrance to the manor. The second stairs were smaller and tucked away in a short hallway, you could get to them only through the further left side of the piazza, through Papa's office, or the spare bedroom to the left of the main entryway which was where guests stayed. 

Going up the main staircase took you to the first floor landing, which gave access to the stairs to the third floor, and led to the [blue bedroom](https://mtv-main-assets.mountvernon.org/files/callout/text-image-block-full/image/sml_blueroom_1.jpg) which was Jacky's, the [chintz](https://www.washingtonian.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/george-washington-home-mount-vernon-wallpaper-after2.jpg) patterned room where Patsy slept, a spare bedroom for guests and a small [hall-sized](https://mtv-main-assets.mountvernon.org/files/callouts/sml_hallbedchamber1.jpg) bedchamber where Sophia slept if she needed to spend the night while their parents were away. His bedroom was the [yellow one](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b3/a9/f7/b3a9f75e93a3b9d4885d08b934e9899e.jpg), it was spacious and the bright color made it perfect for reading in during the day time.

The whole house was really nice, but Alexander still liked his room best, and not just because it was his, but because it was special. It had something no one else's did. The private secondary staircase that connected the first and second floor? There was only two rooms in that section of the house, his room and Mamma's and Papa's room. Alex's bedroom had two doorways _and_ its own hallway! Unless you wanted to go downstairs and tip toe through the first floor guest bedroom, go outside to the other doorway, or sneak through Papa's study to find the second staircase, his bedroom was the _only way_ to get to his Mamma's and Papa's door since there was no entry way for it on the primary staircase landing.

Sure, it meant that Jacky and Patsy and even Sophia sometimes came through in order to get to his parents more quickly if they needed to, but Alexander liked the fact that his room had something the others' didn't. It even had a fireplace! He liked the green and white color scheme of the second floor spare room more, but he had to admit his room was the most interesting aside from [Papa's and Mamma's](https://www.mountvernon.org/the-estate-gardens/the-mansion/the-mansion-room-by-room/#g-16_m-washingtonbedchamber1), which had its own big closet and storage rooms inside (which were perfect for hiding in when it was play time).

After standing in a daze for several moments, Alexander snapped out of his thoughts and made the decision to take the main stairs; he was more likely to run into a servant or someone who could help him that way. Plus, sometimes Papa had the doors to his study locked and he wasn't sure he would be able to turn and go back up the other way if it was.

He trudged across his bedroom floor, feeling the tight, weighty sensation in his chest growing with every step he took, shallow breaths leaving him. 

Once arriving at the sleek walnut staircase, Alexander tried unsuccessfully to swallow the painful lump that was lodged in his throat. Seconds ticked by as he kept hoping for someone to appear at the end of the stairs that could help, but they didn't come. Realizing he would have to go down and look for someone, he gripped the railing and began to walk down, one step at a time. He had to keep pausing because he ran out of breath quickly, and once squeezed his eyes shut when looking down the stairs made him dizzy, afraid he would fall. 

If he had felt bad when he first woke up, then by the time he got to the bottom of the staircase, he felt absolutely horrid. Thank God the doorway to the dining room was immediately to his right; he could hear his family talking, the scent of breakfast wafting through the air. Instead of feeling hungry though, the smell just made him nauseous. 

Trying to take a deep breath and only managing to wheeze and make his chest hurt more, Alexander shuffled into the room, more than anything just wanting his parents.

* * *

George was just discussing the children's upcoming lessons over breakfast when he heard the sound of bare feet pattering across the floor.

The man looked up with a smile, about to comment on his son feeling well enough to get out of bed that morning, but stopped short at the sight of him. His boy was leaning against the door frame, his face stark white, except for the area of his cheeks, which were flushed bright red with illness. He appeared to be shivering, despite the sweat that dampened his hair and forehead. 

He stood from the table immediately, concern radiating off of him, "Son?" 

"Papa." The child rasped out his reply in a weak voice, taking a single step towards him and faltering as what little color he had left in him abruptly drained away, his legs buckling and he suddenly tumbled towards the floor. 

"Alexander!" He dove towards the boy and managed to reach him just before he could crack his head open on the floor, cradling the small body in his arms. It was like sticking a hand in a lit oven. _Dear God, he's burning up._ "You foolish boy! Why didn't you ring the bell to call for a servant?" He scooped his son up and sat back down near the table, propping his head up with the crook of his arm like he had when he was a baby. 

_When_ , as if he wasn't still just barely more than a toddler. 

As Jacky slipped out of his seat and ran off to go find his mother, Alexander shook his head, only to whine as the headache came piercing back through his skull full force. He hated the bell, he didn't need servants, he got down the stairs on his own, hadn't he? " _No_." 

George sighed. _Stubborn child._

"We need to get you back to your bed," He announced, carefully clutching the red-haired child in his arms as he stood, spotting his wife in the doorway with a concerned expression on her face. "My love, please send for Doctor Arason at once." George tried to keep his voice level as he carried his youngest child up the stairs and to his room, laying him down upon the yellow blankets. 

Almost immediately after his back touched the bed, Alexander made a horrible wheezing sound and was struggling to sit up, grabbing at his father's arm in a panic when the pain in his chest made it difficult to do so on his own, " _Papa—_ " He started coughing, violently, and the unmistakably _wet_ sound rattling from his son's chest made Washington's stomach drop. "I c-can't—Papa—I can't _breathe!_ "

Tears started rolling down the boy's face as he choked, feeling like his throat was being blocked by something. 

When the boy started coughing harder and began to make a retching sound, George immediately looped an arm around his waist and helped him bend over the side of the bed, feeling more sick with concern than with disgust as the young child started bringing up a yellow-green slime on the bedroom floor, gasping through his struggled attempts to breathe while the man held his hair away from his mouth. "Easy, son, it's alright, it's fine, don't swallow it. Just bring it up." 

For about two minutes his son would retch up more of the foul smelling phlegm, sobbing, and dragging in a few quick, difficult attempts to breathe, before doing it again. 

Eventually the coughing began to subside, thankfully before he brought up anything resembling blood, and Alexander leaned against him, shaking and exhausted. He just rubbed the sickly youth's back as he seemed to doze off in his father's lap. 

Fighting down the inevitable panic at this sudden sickness, George carried the child to the floral printed room across the hallway that remained unoccupied unless they were hosting a guest. Alexander would have to rest in here until his room could be cleaned; the floor as well as the bedding. If he was ill, then his blankets and linens were most likely drenched in whatever germ had caused him to feel so sick. 

After fetching a washcloth and a basin of cool water, he dabbed at the corner of Alexander's mouth and wiped away the sweat on his face, leaving the cold cloth draped across the boy's forehead in an effort to ease his fever.

His poor boy had gone through so much already, he didn't _deserve_ this. 

* * *

Viktor arrived within the hour, brushing off Martha's repeated apologies for calling him away from his family once more. 

"I would not have told you to alert me if I didn't want to be bothered, ma'am, rest assured it is no trouble at all." Doctor Arason smiled, turning from her to face Washington when the other man stood to greet him. "Your wife filled me in on the way up; young Alexander has taken ill, has he? Feverish, difficulty breathing, congestion?" 

The pinched look on George's face must have said it all, because he nodded, "I had a feeling there might be complications later, even so I would prefer to examine him myself before jumping to conclusions." 

"Of course, Sir, this way." 

As they made their way into the guest bedroom where Alexander was asleep, it became painfully clear just how unwell he was. The boy was shivering despite being under three layers of blankets, his breaths slow and shallow sounding, his face still white as a sheet with fever burning bright in his cheeks, a fresh coat of sweat matting down his dark curls. 

Moving to his son's side, George put a hand on his thin shoulder and roused him with gentle words and a light squeeze, causing him to groan and open his eyes. "...Doc'r Ar'son?" he slurred, struggling to to sit up as he recognized the man. His father helped him, lifting him by the under arms and propping him up against a stack of pillows so he was in an upright position. 

"Good morning, Alexander." Viktor greeted as he moved to sit at the boy's feet, "My, you don't look so good, my boy. Let's see what we can do about that, shall we?" He always spoke in a gentle but positive tone, to help put his younger patients at ease. Alexander, comfortable with the fact that he had met this man before, nodded slightly and went along with the examine with little complaint; though he did almost fall asleep once when Doctor Arason massaged the swelling in his throat. 

He was sore and tired and cold, he just wanted it all to go away. 

As he had his ear to the child's chest, listening as he took breaths as instructed, the crepidation from his lungs was both unpleasant and concerning. That crackling sound was most often a sign of infection. Between that, his other symptoms, and the near drowning experience he had recently and his broken rib, he was fairly certain he knew what was wrong with Alexander.

Giving the boy a small dose of laudanum, he helped his patient lay back down, with his upper body slightly elevated, and told him to rest, stepping outside to speak with his parents. 

"I'm afraid the boy is suffering from a case of Lung Fever." 

Martha covered her mouth and gripped onto George, who had gone stone-faced to hide his terror. 

"He's still coherent enough to hold conversation, but his temperature will most likely only raise as his body tries to fight it off. You said he was recovering well?" Viktor checked, waiting for their nod. "I can't say with any degree of certainty, but this illness was likely brought on by his near drowning experience last week; I have treated patients before who showed these symptoms after inhaling unclean water into their lungs. The most important thing is to keep his fever down, and keep him eating and drinking. He won't want to, between the tremors and pain they rarely do, but he needs to keep his strength up while he recovers. Children are especially vulnerable to this disease. I can prescribe him quinine powder—"

George looked up sharply, finally speaking, "I thought that was used in the treatment of Ague?" 

The physician nodded, "That is it's primary usage, yes. However, the Jesuits used it to effectively treat all forms of fever, it should help reduce his internal heat. Another thing; unless he begins bringing up blood or suffers another fracture, do _not_ discourage him from coughing. Whatever he swallowed in the water went into his chest and not his stomach, the more of it he can remove, the easier it will be for him to breathe. Tea or warm water with honey will help soothe the pain in his throat, but cough suppressants are not recommended, if his infection persists, bleeding him would be the next step." He warned, and both parents blanched at the thought of slicing open their weak, miserable child in an effort to drain the illness from his system. 

"Thank you, Doctor Ara— _Viktor_. Please, allow me to escort you to the parlor for refreshment." Martha watched as her husband left the room, as though dazed, and she returned to the room where Alexander was already mostly unconscious again, the relief on his face from the medicine Arason gave him earlier evident. 

She brushed his hair back from his face, wiping the sweat away, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. 

"Hold on, my dearest Alexander. You have become like my very own son to me. I have lost children before," she said softly, "Your father never has, and I would not wish that pain on the Devil himself. Be strong, for his sake if not your own brilliant future. I love you." She tucked him in before taking a seat at his bedside, picking up a storybook from his shelf, and began to read to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone wondering, "lung fever" was a term in Ye Olde English which basically meant lung infection, specifically Pneumonia. Kind of like how they didn't call Tuberculosis what we call it now, it was known as White Plague or Consumption. 
> 
> Ear-to-chest listening is because the first stethoscope wasn't invented until 1816 by René Laennec, who would use tubes for listening to a woman's heart, as he wasn't comfortable putting his ear directly on her chest to listen, and his discovery developed from there. Funny enough they did have a type of thermometer back then that worked, but it was over a foot long and took like 30 minutes to get a result so doctors rarely used them.
> 
> Bleeding = bloodletting, a common tactic used back then that eventually fell out of popularity when we realized, hey, maybe cutting people open and letting them lose dangerous volumes of blood doesn't cure diseases? There's speculation that blood loss shock (hypovolemia) is what actually killed Washington. He had some sort of throat infection and allowed them to remove 5 pints of blood and "shockingly" his condition deteriorated soon after and he died. 
> 
> I apologize for the sheer number of links I included in this story, but I found them to make really remarkable visual aids when trying to describe what Mount Vernon looks like, and the website mountvernon.org has an incredible amount of knowledge in it, so I encourage any fic writers who are including Washington or his estate in their stories to use it as a reference if you want details!
> 
> Side note: Patsy's room does not have a matching crib in it like the photo shows, as that was only added when Martha's granddaughter Eleanor "Nelly" Parke Custis Lewis gave birth, and Martha gave her the crib as a gift while she and the baby stayed in the room. 
> 
> Alexander's preference for the color green is a nod to the musical where he wore that emerald green suit for the later half, lol.


	6. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was her.

_September, 1762_

In the middle of the night, George somehow found himself down by the wharf. 

It was a cool, pleasant evening, the sky was clear, the clouds had given way to allow a beautiful view of the thousands of brilliant stars speckled across the night like diamonds, all of them paling in comparison to the silver moon hanging among them. He felt oddly at peace, for some reason. 

Looking down at himself, he realized with a start his clothes were soaked and tattered, as if he had been in some sort of accident. _Why?_

The man shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts, and turned to walk back to the house. He was unsure of why he was out here so late in the first place, but knowing for certain that he had no desire to be, not after what happened to his son out on that damn boat. Besides, his boy was still unwell, he needed his father by his bedside, he shouldn't be wasting his time out here of all places. 

Suddenly, he stopped. 

A haunting melody reached his ears from the distance, a mournful lullaby so beautiful his breath caught. Against his own wishes, George turned his body toward the source, as if some unnatural force was pushing him to acknowledge the sounds. 

" _You,_ " He whispered at the sight of a familiar woman standing at the edge of the water, looking as calm as could be.

As she stood in the surf, her lazurite eyes were directed upwards, towards the silver orb that illuminated the evening and left a glow on her bare skin; her ink black hair billowing in the gentle winds. If it hadn't been for the moonlight allowing him to see properly, he would have been terrified of this naked, pale creature before him, regardless of her impossible beauty. 

As it were, he moved towards her, though his legs felt like they were filled with lead.

"Why... why are you here?" He croaked, his voice hoarse. It had been over five years, and he had never anticipated seeing this woman again, had done his best to forget about her, so the fact she was standing here before him left him at a loss of what to do. 

She turned her eyes back to him, a slim hand lifting as though to touch his face, and he inhaled sharply at the contact. Despite the freshwater nature of the Potomac, next to which his estate was built, she still smelled like ocean salt. That touch sent sparks of electric sensation sweeping through him. He gripped her wrist, "Who are you? What is your name? Can you even understand a word I'm saying?" The man demanded, his voice edging slightly on the hysterical. 

Her head inclined slightly. 

George somehow had a feeling she knew exactly what he was saying, she just couldn't (or wouldn't) respond to him in his own language, and if that singing was hers, then he obviously couldn't speak it. Communication would be difficult this way. 

Instead of replying verbally, her dark eyes looked over his shoulder at something, prompting him to follow her gaze. She was looking at his home. 

"What? I don't understand. You wish me to bring you inside? Find you some clothing perhaps?" He bit out a rare sarcastic comment, "There's nothing here for you that you could possibly want, so—"

His blood went cold with realization. 

"No... you're here for him, aren't you? For Alexander? For my son?" It was suddenly difficult to breathe. "You can't take him."

She just stared back at him. 

He closed the distance between them, whispering angrily, "You can understand me, can't you? I don't know what you are, or why you followed me here, but Alexander is _my_ child. I've raised him since he was a baby, he doesn't _know_ you. **_I_** don't know you. You left him with me, if you recall. It's too late to take him back now." She neither confirmed nor denied anything he was saying, and his frustration only grew. "Answer me, damn it! _What do you want?_ "

Her dainty hands closed around his own and his mouth snapped shut, as she started tugging him towards the water. 

George resisted, digging his heels into the sand, "No. I'll not go with you, Miss." 

_I don't know who you are, but I won't leave my family to follow you._

She stopped when he refused to come with her, although he got the feeling she was more than capable of overpowering him, she simply released his hands, and he watched her, barely breathing. 

The woman brushed her fingers along the inside of his wrist, once, and then turned her back to him, beginning to walk towards the wharf. 

"Wait, where are you—"

As she made it to the edge of the dock, she glanced back at him, smiling ever so slightly, and then dove into the river, vanishing in the wine dark waves. 

Why did he feel like she was trying to tell him something?

* * *

George woke with a start.

He sat up and looked around, rubbing his eyes blearily, and realized he was in the second floor guest bedchambers, having fallen asleep in the chair next to the bed. His neck and back ached a bit and he straightened up, trying to relieve some of the discomfort from dozing off at such an awkward angle. His boy was still sleeping off his latest dose of laudanum; he couldn't have it too often, but thankfully it seemed to be keeping his pain at bay. His fever had not lowered by much, but it had not gotten worse since Doctor Arason's visit, so he would have to consider that a sign of good fortune. 

Looking at Alexander, it was impossible not to tell that he had inherited much of his mother's features. 

He had her eyes, of course, though the violet hue was less pronounced on him most of the time; they were a deep shade of blue framed by thick dark lashes, his face was an oval shape and his nose was straight and slightly down-turned, and he had her smile, from what he could tell, full lipped and slightly mischievous.

Sometimes, the way the boy tilted his head and pursed his lips together with a saucy expression reminded him of how Lawrence used to behave whenever he was feeling particularly impertinent. His nose was identical to his sister Betsey’s; so the child was not without resemblance to the paternal side of his family. 

The boy had George's hair, from the same reddish brown color to the way that it curled at the ends. Alexander would always get so _mad_ if anyone ruffled his hair, because it would then stick up everywhere. The boy was going to be handsome when he was older, and if he was anything like the Washington siblings had been when they were adolescents, that was going to spell trouble. When he got his head out of a book long enough to notice women, that is. 

_If he lives that long_ , a cynical voice in the back of his mind suggested.

Immediately feeling sick at the thought, the man rose to his feet, intending to open the drapes so Alexander could get a bit of sunlight. 

Hearing a wet sound, he looked down. 

Was that... _sand?_

There was a puddle of water at his feet, and grainy sand footprints leading into the room. 

He gripped the beam of the bed canopy, as he realized that it wasn't a dream, it couldn't have been; dreams didn't leave a mark in the conscious world. Which meant he had actually been down by the wharf last night. 

So she had been as well.

_Why?_

* * *

In order to make sure Alexander's condition did not worsen, someone was to check on him every hour or so. 

Between he, Martha, Sophie or one of the household servants, he was rarely alone. 

The children had been expressly forbidden from getting near him, out of worry that he might be contagious, and though they were quite upset at the time, they appeared accept that it was for their own well being eventually. He should have known better than to believe that. 

It was the middle of the night when Jacky awoke George and Martha by, quite literally, jumping on them. 

"Ma, Pops! Wake up! Alex is having some sort of fit!" 

Any part of him that might have otherwise ignored the child, who had a habit of waking his parents up this way, was instantly overshadowed by the sudden alertness, as if ice water had been dumped on him, and he quickly threw back his blankets as Martha sat up in concern. He crossed the floor in a matter of moments and passed through the open door that lead to the second stair corridor, turning left into Alexander's room, which had been rigorously cleaned by the domestic slaves in an effort to expunge any illness that clung to it. 

He found Sophia trying desperately to soothe the child as he twisted and thrashed in his bed, eyes wide open and darting back and forth in fright, pupils dilated to the point the rings of his irises were barely visible around the black, seeing something that wasn't there...

"M-Monster!" 

Sophia reached into a bucket of water resting on the side table and pressed a cold cloth against the boy's forehead, and he _screamed_. " _Non, non, douce enfant. Il n'y a pas de monstres, veuillez vous calmer_." Spotting Washington in the doorway, she urgently told him, "His _fièvre_ has risen, he is seeing phantoms! I need to cool him off! _Alexandre, arrête!_ You will injure yourself!' She pleaded.

George was at her side in an instant, helping hold the terrified boy in place, "Alexander!"

His face was flushed an alarming shade of red, eyes glassy and wet as fat tears rolled down his face and he sobbed, "The monster! Papa, the monster! It's _hurting_ me!" The man felt his heart breaking as he pinned the feverish child down so his nanny could wipe him down with the cold washcloth.

”No, no, no! Let go!” Alexander cried as his father held him in place, the look of betrayal in his eyes making the man feel sick to his stomach. _Either we lower his fever this way, or Doctor Arason will have you hold him down as he cuts him with the scalpel and bleeds the infection from him_ , George reminded himself, his resolve strengthening despite the parental instincts warring against doing anything that would upset his boy.

His son’s pained wails went from fearful and distressed to angry (" _STOP IT_ ") as they washed his burning body down with cold water, eventually dying off into whimpers and sniffles as he began to calm down, now shivering as the air touched his cool, wet skin. 

"P...Papa..." Alexander blindly reached out for him and he took the child into his arms as he sought comfort from the man. He coughed and weakly gripped George’s forearm. “I-I don’t... I don’t feel well...”

“Shhh, I know, Baby, I’ve got you. You’re going to make it through this.” Washington held his son close for a moment, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of a warm and sticky child clinging to him. He stroked his hair, apologizing several times in a murmur before propping Alexander up a bit and taking the glass of water mixed with the quinine powder that his dear Martha had passed him, quietly urging the five-year-old to drink, which he thankfully did with some encouragement before falling asleep against his father's chest.

Before these past few weeks, he’d thought he already knew what being helpless felt like, after seeing his brother slowly consumed by illness, and his time in the Virginia militia... but that was nothing compared to the despair he felt now, unable to take away what was hurting his beloved son. 

"It's okay, Pops," A hand touched his own and he looked down to meet determined chocolate brown eyes - passed on to him by his mother - and Jacky hugged his leg, "Alex is going to be fine. He's strong. He's not going to end up like Daniel or Franny. You'll see!" He promised, before being ushered out of the room by the two women who were his anchor during this time, keeping him from losing all hope that this horrid illness wouldn't take his son after all.

After a few minutes, he realized he wasn't prepared to leave Alexander again just yet, and carefully shifted into a more comfortable position, leaning back against the absurd amount of pillows stacked on the bed while the child slept with his head in George's lap; he occasionally ran his fingers through the boy's hair or wiped away the sweat on his forehead. 

"Sir?"

He lifted his head, meeting Sophia's gentle gaze, as she offered him a steaming china cup, "I thought you could use some chamomile tea? Not to be presumptive, but I would not blame you if your nerves were frayed recently." 

It was the sweet words along with her genuinely kind demeanor that zapped any urge he had to be irritated before it could even develop, and not for the first time.

"Thank you, Sophia. I am not certain what we would do without you, at this point."

“I’m sure you would manage just fine, Sir.” Her smile brightened and she reached out to lay the back of her hand against Alexander's cheek, prompting a quiet sigh. 

"This is a good boy, and he has a promising future ahead of him. He will make it, I’m certain, he is strong. Please call if you require anything, Sir." She told Washington simply, before giving a slight bow, despite his repeated insistence that the gesture wasn't necessary, and exited the room. 

_Please let her be right_ , he thought to himself, pressing his lips to the boy's forehead. _Hold on, Alexander, just don't give up_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to all the lovely people leaving comments and Kudos on my story! It's very encouraging to know you're all enjoying this even when it feels like I'm winging it a lot of the time. Anyone wanna guess what Rachel/Alexander's mom/the mysterious water lady, was trying to tell George? She didn't come back for another quickie that's for sure, lol. 
> 
> I like including Jacky and Patsy in this story, I'd like to give them a bigger part but I'm afraid to since we know they both die IRL before their time... but maybe they won't in my story? I don't know yet. Daniel and Frances ("Franny") were two children of Martha and her first husband Daniel Parke Custis who didn't survive early childhood. Jacky wouldn't know Daniel since he passed away around the time he was born but he may have vague memories of Frances, his sister, and also have heard stories from Martha. 
> 
> Sophia, the nanny, has some rather maternal feelings for Alexander; she has known him since he was less than two after all.


	7. Please Hold On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington felt his body give out, sinking into the wet sand as tears streamed down his face, seized by a grief so profound that there were no words, just noises. Horrible, wretched sobs leaving the man as he cradled his boy against his chest with trembling arms.
> 
> He was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note, I went back and added more detail/edited a few things in chapters 3-7, corrected spelling mistakes, etc.
> 
> The only semi-important change that you might notice is I changed the year that Alexander's boat accident happened, making him five and a half when he went overboard and subsequently got sick. This was because, while writing this chapter, I began to realize how difficult it was to write good but also realistic dialogue from Alexander when he was only four. I wanted to portray him as being above average intelligent and development for his age, but even I had to admit some of what I was writing just wasn't realistic for a four year old, so I bumped him up a bit. 
> 
> It won't effect anything else in the story, probably, but when I initially wrote the boat accident chapter I didn't realize I was going to have it be an ongoing plot that lasted several chapters, so the age didn't seem to matter as long as it was one where he could speak, but wasn't able to swim for himself sort of thing. 
> 
> Okay, that's all, please enjoy!

_September, 1762_

Alexander was getting worse by the day.

Despite their best efforts to keep his fever at bay, it fluctuated wildly and uncontrollably, at times his temperature rose so high he would begin to seize. The first time it happened was the day that he began to pray for his son's recovery. He was not of the opinion that one should ask for divine assistance lightly, and certainly not for selfish purposes, but by the time night had fallen last Friday his son could no longer even attempt to sit up on his own anymore, he got down on his knees and prayed at his bedside for God to allow him to recover. He was just a _boy_ , and he was suffering... children should not have to experience such painful illness, it was _wrong_.

Two weeks into this wretchedness, he began refusing to eat. 

It wasn't unexpected, at first; Alexander's appetite had diminished greatly since he had taken ill. He stopped asking for specific foods a few days in, no longer feeling well enough to take advantage of the situation by requesting whatever he wanted, knowing he would get it. Instead he would consume about half of whatever was put in front of him, listlessly. 

Doctor Arason assured them that, while it was preferable for the boy to eat to maintain his strength, he could afford to skip a meal or two as long as he continued to drink. 

That wasn't an issue until the frequent bouts of feverish delirium, pain and difficulty breathing made the boy much more lethargic than he had previously been. He slept through most of the day, coughing fits and needing trips to the necessities aside so he could relieve himself. Eventually he could no longer walk without the risk of collapsing, and they began to rely on the chamber pot. 

His boy was prideful for his age; if he had been fully aware it likely would have embarrassed him. 

Occasionally, they managed to spoon-feed liquid meals in an effort to keep him nourished; soups, stews, broths and even tea flavored with honey, herbs and fruits, but without proper food he wasn't becoming any healthier, and what little energy he did have left was quickly expelled by coughing up mucous and trying to sweat out the ongoing fever that raged within him. 

It was killing him, and they knew it.

Often times, George would sit beside Alexander as he slept and listen to his weak breaths, occasionally lifting his upper body and bringing a cup of water to his lips to encourage him to drink when his coughs grew dry and raspy. 

"Just hold on, son. You can fight this, you are so strong, my love, too strong for this fever to best you. You will be fine." He wasn’t sure how much of his words were him speaking to Alex, and how much was him trying to convince himself.

Every now and then, the boy would speak to him; sometimes clearly, although his words were often nonsensical enough to assume he didn't fully understand what was happening. 

One time, two nights ago, stood out in particular. 

"Mm..." Alexander groaned quietly in his sleep, his fingers twitching against the mattress. "...Papa?" 

His voice was clear despite the almost dreamlike quality to it, and the fact that his eyes remained closed, causing the man to look up sharply. 

George pressed closer to his son and took his hand - God, was he always this tiny or had the illness done it to him? - and asked, "What is it, Sweetheart? Do you need something?" He asked softly; louder voices appeared to distress the boy. He rubbed his thumb along the palm of Alexander's hand, watching as his head turned to the side absently and he gave a shallow sigh. For a moment he was so still, Washington believed he had fallen back asleep, when suddenly:

"—Do you hear her?" 

His head tilted, listening for a sound, but there was nothing but the gentle splattering of raindrops against the window panes. "Hear what, my boy?" 

What Alexander said made all the color drain from his face. 

"...Mother... I can hear her calling me..." 

George swallowed, trying to think of a reply. His son was imaging things that weren't there again. "Alexander, she's asleep. She went to sleep hours ago, there's no one calling. It's just me, son." He told him, feeling the slender fingers curling around his own, gripping him feebly. 

Despite his apparent belief he was being called to, Alexander's face was smooth, restful, he didn't seem distressed in the slightest. "No... not Mamma, my real Mother." He said softly, and the man went rigid in his seat, heart suddenly pounding against the inside of his rib cage. "She's calling... singing... it sounds so pretty, Papa, can't you hear it? She wants me to go home with her... she says I'll feel better..." 

The boy's words trailed off slowly into incoherent mumbles before he lapsed into a quiet sleep once more, looking almost comfortable beneath his blankets. 

Meanwhile, Washington felt like somebody had managed to inject ice water into his veins. 

Laying Alexander's hand back down by his side, the man stood, consciously trying to ignore the shaking of his own hands as he circled around the bed of the yellow room and over to the window, a sickening feeling in his gut as he pulled back one of the drapes and looked out at the share of the Potomac visible to him. Rain streaked against the window and he squinted. 

She was standing in the surf, and he couldn't be sure from the distance, but... 

George felt like she was **staring** right at him. 

A chill crawled up his back, and he quickly yanked the curtains closed, swallowing his desire to send someone out there. 

_The scent of blood was thick in the air as the crew were ripped apart by something in the water._

* * *

It didn't get any easier from there. 

By the time the week had ended, Alexander no longer spoke in his sleep; he barely regained consciousness at all anymore. 

Doctor Arason had to force water down the boy's throat to keep him from dying of dehydration. 

The man had never felt so angry and helpless as he heard his son's horrid choking noises, so very similar to the ones he'd made when expelling the water from the river that had started all of this. He never wanted to hear such sounds again as long as he lived. 

Seeing the life fading from his boy so slowly felt like a blessing but also a curse. 

George didn't want him to die, he wasn't ready to let his little boy go, not this young... but he was barely Alexander anymore. Without his voice, his laughter, his mind, he wasn't the incredible child he'd become in such a short amount of time. It was hellish, to see that spark inside him grow more faint with every day that passed; he wondered more than once if it would not be less cruel to just send him off quickly, so he was no longer tied to the suffering of a dying body. 

He'd tried to discuss it with Martha; but he hadn't been able to keep his composure throughout the conversation. 

His dreams - in the rare opportunities he was able to sleep - didn't grant him peace either. 

The dreams didn't stop. 

Every night he dreamed of her, nearly the same identical premise; standing on the beach, nearly screaming at her to _just leave us alone, what do you want from us, why have you only come back when our son is dying?_

She never answered him.

In the day time, he would get flickers, daytime nightmares of the ship wreck, of his son's pale face glowing beneath the water as he attempted to rescue him from drowning, of being dragged onto the beach by the _sea witch_ who had conceived his son with him, of waves crashing against a rocky shore and the calm beauty of the Chesapeake Bay. He wanted to make sense of the fantasies, they had to mean something, but all his exhausted, grief-stricken mind could come up with was that he really hated water now. 

Perhaps if Washington had been as bright as his son he would have seen the answer being presented to him all along. 

But he didn't... not until Alexander disappeared one evening. 

* * *

No one had much of an appetite these days. 

His boy... he would not eat or drink; his organs were beginning to die, according to the doctor.

There wasn't much time left. 

Hours. A day or two if they were lucky.

George hardly ate with his family anymore, and when he did it was due to Martha's urging. He couldn't bear the sight of his gloomy, withdrawn children, who no doubt realized by now that their little brother had not recovered, and that Viktor was in their home more often than he was in his own. Alexander's degrading health was slowly unraveling the beautiful family he and his wife had made together through their union. 

It wasn't fair. 

He left the dinner table after picking at his meal until it had more or less gone cold, and found himself numbly walking towards the stairs when he heard Sophia screaming. 

The Frenchwoman was in a state of hysterics when she nearly ran into him, speaking so rapidly in her native tongue that he wouldn't have understood her even if he did speak the language, "Sophia, what's wrong with you? Is it Alexander?!" 

"Gone! He's gone!" She wailed, and he was sprinting up the stairs, terrified. 

_No, no, no! Please, not yet._

_I'm not ready to say goodbye._

He didn't realize the scope of the situation til he saw the empty bed with the blankets tossed aside; she had meant gone as in _missing_. 

Not dead. 

Hope and fear washed over him; torn between wishing more than anything to turn the corner and see his son standing there, grinning, perfectly fine, but horrified by the notion that he may have been _taken_.

He was tearing through their bedrooms when Martha yelled for him, told him the door was wide open.

God above, how had they not _noticed?_

Something in him snapped, and George grabbed his pistol, tucking it in the pocket of his breeches as he raced out into the pouring rain, squinting into the darkness. He could feel a pull, an unnatural draw telling him where to go. 

He had never harmed a woman before but if she had done anything to Alexander, he would be walking away with blood on his hands tonight. The soldier knew how to kill, if his son died because of her, he would not be the only one.

Running off the piazza, he cut across the estate in a record breaking speed.

Before he even reached the wharf, he could see the small, prone form laying sprawled out in the grass, his hand reaching in the direction of the tide, as though he had tried to crawl there but couldn't make it.

"Alexander!" 

He was by his side so quickly the world spun, taking the child in his arms. He was soaked to the bone in his flimsy night gown, pale and nearly lifeless... so _thin..._

But his son's eyes were open. 

The touch to his face made the boy's dark blue eyes flicker to George before his eyelids closed, his lips moving ever so slightly. _He was trying to speak_. 

Despite the impossibility of the situation, George hung onto that tiny thread, the smallest shred of life coming from the five year old, anything. "Alexander, my love, why... why did you come out here?" He looked out at the river, expecting to see her again, but he did not. Was his son looking for her? Did he somehow summon the strength to come out in the hopes of seeing her? 

_You need to save your strength, my boy... the water is the last thing you need._

Water.

Her dainty hand was always tugging at him, awake or asleep, dreams or reality, she kept trying to pull him away from his family into the river. 

_No, I'll not go with you, Miss._

Staring at him. No, at his house. 

_You're here for him, for Alexander?_

Only when he was dying, perhaps it was her guilt? 

_But he wasn't dying yet the first time._

What had Alexander said in his feverish state last week, back when he could still speak? 

_”Papa, can't you hear it? She wants me to go home with her... she says I'll feel better...”_

The revelation came so suddenly that it ripped the air out of his lungs in a frantic gasp, and he was on his feet, racing across the beach with the limp, lifeless boy in his arms. 

He dropped to his knees in the shallows of the water, panting, rain soaking him to the bone as he lay Alexander down in the surf, the gentle lap of the wave splashing across his legs and chest, hand unmoving against the sand. He waited, holding his breath, not knowing what to expect. It was insane to expect a miracle at this point, his son's health had been an uphill battle ever since he'd drowned. Perhaps he was a desperate father acting foolishly in his meager hope.

_Please, let me be right._

The minutes passed in a frightening silence. 

Dread suddenly pooled in his gut as he realized that Alexander had not moved a muscle since closing his eyes, not even to cough. Scrambling, the man pushed away Alexander's hair and pressed two fingers under his jaw, against his pulse. 

_Nothing_. 

The howl that ripped through the air may have been his own cry, or the sound of the winds, he couldn't say. 

Washington felt his body give out, sinking into the wet sand as tears streamed down his face, seized by a grief so profound that there were no words, just noises. Horrible, wretched sobs leaving the man as he cupped the boy’s head and cradled his body against his chest in trembling arms. He hadn't cried this way since his father died when he was eleven. "No, no, oh God, no, he's just a baby, don't take him from me so soon. Please, son, you can't do this to me. Alexander? Can you hear me? Alex, _Please_." He begged, helpessly brushing his hair back from his face, patting his cold wet cheek, and rocking him back and forth, as though he could wake him up.

He was too late.

The sound of footsteps didn't even budge him, lost in the horrifying discovery that what his son had needed the whole time was right here, and he _hadn't known_. 

May God forgive him; he’d let his little boy die.

"George..." Martha's voice was full of heartache as she joined his side, not understanding the situation beyond the part that mattered most: her stepson's lifeless form hanging from her husband's arms. The hand that touched his shoulder did nothing but pull another devastated sob from his throat.

"My fault, I didn't see it... _Alexander..._ oh God, _I've killed my son!_ "

What were they going to tell Jacky and Patsy? And dear sweet Sophia, she loved him as if he were her own. He'd never even gotten the chance the introduce his mother to this incredible child. None of them were ever going to get to see the amazing man he would have grown up to be.

_I should have never taken him out on that damned boat. It's all my fault, he didn't deserve this. It should have been me—_

A strangled gasp cut through the air like a knife. 

Stinging eyes opened through the tears, and he felt his whole world come to a stunned halt. 

Blue-violet irises gazed back up at George's face. 

Alexander's skin _glowed_ like a pearl in a sunbeam, and the boy was suddenly jerking in his father's arms as he sucked in a huge breath of air. 

He sat up on his own, something he hadn't been able to do in over a week, and was nearly gasping in air, deep full breaths. His eyes flickering wildly around in a state of shocked confusion; and the man stared back at him in disbelief, before the child was suddenly being crushed into his chest as he hugged his boy fiercely, feeling his little heart racing against him as proof of the impossible.

"Papa..."

Never had he thought hearing that word come from Alexander's lips could make him happier than the first time it happened.

His wife crying behind him in joy and disbelief. 

When he finally pulled his face out of the child's soaking wet curls, he caught a glimpse of silver light flickering on the surface of the water, just for a moment before it vanished. 

_Thank you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 4:30 am so any weird spelling mistakes or sentences that make no sense that you see will probably be fixed within the next couple of days, lol. Be sure to let me know what you think and thanks so much for reading! Next chapter will probably have Alexander aged up a bit as well as how the family dealt with this 'miracle' that happened, so that'll be fun. I'm looking forward to writing teen and adult Alex soon!


	8. Uncovering

_September, 1762_

George and Martha returned to their home in silence, a million thoughts and questions running through their minds. 

As soon as they got inside, Doctor Arason nearly went into shock, took the now sleeping boy and laid him down on the parlor couch, giving him a thorough exam. He kept checking his breathing, feeling his forehead and shaking his head, muttering to himself.

"Impossible! This boy was near death just an hour ago, and now his breathing is completely clear... there's no sign of fever left. How did this happen?" 

The lie left him quickly and smoothly without hesitation, "I have not a clue, I'm afraid. Sophia realized Alexander was no longer in his bed and, with the front door left open, we began searching for him. He was down by the wharf, laying in the rain, conscious and calm as could be."

 _A miracle_ , his mind wanted to insist. Their prayers had been answered. 

But, he couldn't accept that as an answer. 

He knew the truth. 

As positively relieved, nay, _elated_ as he was that Alexander had made a full recovery, he couldn't ignore what he had seen. 

The river waters, which had poisoned him previously, had healed his son.

Brought him back to life after his heart had already stopped beating, after feverish sickness had zapped away his strength and destroyed his internal body. 

It was something his mother had somehow known would happen, which was why she had been so insistent on making him understand; he needed to know more, assess the situation properly... later.

Finding answers to his questions could wait for now, however.

In this moment, his boy needed him.

* * *

Alexander awoke to the sensation of fingers combing gently through his hair. 

Quietly yawning, the five-year-old turned and saw his father sitting at his bedside, smiling softly when he realized the boy had awoken. 

"Good morning, son. How are you feeling?" 

Baffled by how clear and bright everything was, the boy cautiously sat up, looking at himself in astonishment when the immediate response from his body wasn't excruciating pain; taking a deep, struggle-free breath without effort. "I'm... all better?" He looked to his father in confusion, seeing the way he was trying to suppress his smile. "Why am I better? I thought... Doctor Arason said that I was going to die." 

All traces of amusement at his child's wonder vanished, replaced by a grimace; Washington hadn't realized Alexander was aware of anything that had been happening around him the last few days. 

"You came... very close, Alex." The man admitted, reaching to take the small boy's hand. "We're not sure how you managed to pull through and beat this," Was he imagining things or did his father's jaw just twitch when he said that? "But I think it best we just count our blessings and be glad that you did. Are you thirsty? Hungry? It is not too late for us to join our family for breakfast, if you're feeling up to it." 

"Depends on what we're having, Sir!" Alexander responded cheekily, and instead of a light reprimand, he saw amusement and unmistakable fondness in Washington's eyes. "Just teasing, Papa! Let's go, please? I want to see Jacky and Patsy again!"

He crawled out of the bed and stood in front of his father, smiling cheerfully. 

Just as he was about to leave, George's hands were on the boy's shoulders, spinning him back around to face him, "Huh? What is it?" 

"Son, I need you to take it easy, you just spent weeks bedridden from a terrible illness. What do you remember of last night?" 

Alexander frowned at the concerned look on the man's face, "Papa, I feel fine. I don't remember anything, I slept all day yesterday, didn't I? I think I woke up once or twice... I could hear Miss Sophia singing to me." He murmured, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt impatiently; he wanted to go! He had been stuck in this room for ages, and he missed playing with his brother and sister a lot.

Washington swallowed, knowing for a fact that Sophia hadn't been the one singing to him last night. 

"Very well, let's go join the others downstairs, shall we?"

* * *

Later that morning, he was watching the children run around the front parlor together, ducking behind furniture and hiding in corners.

Despite the uplifting scene, George had a troubled expression on his face.

The gentle touch of his wife's hand on his elbow drew his attention, and he gave her a reassuring smile, "I am fine. Just... thinking." 

"I know, that is why I'm worried, dear." 

A hint of a smile twitched at his mouth, before he stepped away, "We'll talk tonight, when the little ones are in bed. For now, there is something I must do." He kissed her on the cheek before making his retreat to his study on the other side of the house. Taking a seat at the desk, he took out the thick, anonymously written book entitled _Legends & Lore of the Depths_, now more than a quarter through the collection of stories, myths and so-called first hand account people claimed to have had with various sea creatures and water related deities, going as far back as the Antiquity. 

The writings of Homer in his Odyessy appeared to be the first that depicted hybrid women with enchanting voices, and the stories evolved from there. However, many legends were passed down through oral storytelling, not written down; so who knew how long these creatures have existed? Depending on the source they could either grant wishes, show you your future, cause you to fall in love or even drive a man to deadly madness, bestow powers on humans they favored or curse fishermen and seafaring towns.

Mesopotamian writing spoke of _kuliltu_ or "fish women."

In Germania a similar creature was known as the _Nixie_. 

Their names and legends changed from place to place ( _Siren, Alpja, Ningyo, Rusalka, Naiad, Mami Wata, Undine, Kelpie, Selkie, etc_ ), but many of the details remained consistent regardless of geographical location or language of origin.

Hundreds of thousands of years worth of culture, spread out across all the continents, and each country and kingdom appeared to have some variation of these sea goddesses; sometimes they tore sailors apart for food, and other times they rescued drowning men from sea storms, often due to an innate kindness or curiosity they held regarding humanity. Often they are regarded as very vain due to their supreme beauty, but also charitable towards people that treat them well. Sometimes they married men in secrecy and raised families with them, their husbands none the wiser, until the lure for the ocean paradises they came from grew too strong and they abandoned their partners and children to return to their watery homes.

Nothing was a confirmation though, the truth was he knew very little about Alexander’s mother.

He knew she had saved him from the storm... that she had caused? Perhaps not, she did not have the blood of his companions on her when they met; and if she did eat flesh than leaving him alive served no purpose. Next, she either could not or wished not to speak; but she had a voice. He had _heard_ it, her sweet enchanting humming and wordless melodies had lured both he and his son to the beach. She could breathe and move under water, and seemed to transform... She had given birth to Alexander and brought him to George to raise, but why? What was her motivation? Why not raise the boy wherever she came from?

Perhaps... she could not retain her womanly form for long?

If that were the case it would make sense. Alexander breathed air, that would cause issues to a mother attempting to raise her hybrid child in the sea.

What else did he know?

That the water could heal Alexander from the brink of death, without question due to his heritage. His son loved cool climates and disliked being near intense sources of heat, and always complained when the temperature dropping meant they would need to begin lighting fires indoors. He had been left on a beach naked in the winter and had no signs of frostbite after an hour.

Either he was immune to cold temperatures or he healed quickly.

That was all he knew, and it unfortunately was not a lot to go on. If there was someone he could speak to about it, he would, but anyone he mentioned this to would call him mad and have him locked up, possibly for good reason.

He could have spent years pouring over these myths and still not get any closer. 

Perhaps some mysteries were meant to remain as such.

* * *

_January, 1767_

Alexander jerked awake in his bed with a gasp. 

The ten-year-old boy felt his heart hammering in his chest, and he put his head between his legs, taking a few deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. 

_Just a dream, it was just a dream._

He pushed his hair out of his face and looked up, just in time to see a blinding flash of light through his window, followed by a thunderous boom that had him jumping nearly a foot into the air. He launched himself out of his bed and paced around his chambers, trying to ignore the nervous energy that thrummed through his small body, to no avail. He kept seeing horrible things; people dragged under violent waves, kicking and screaming as they were drowned; predatory faces leering from the darkness at people in chains, and other terrifying things. 

Often, they were reoccurring, haunting his nights regardless of what he did to try to prevent them. 

Tonight was a new one though.

_People were gathered on a street corner, harassing a group of British soldiers, arguing with them._

_Suddenly, the situation turned violent._

_The civilians started pelting the Redcoats with snowballs, clubs, stones, glass bottles and other objects. A boy jabbed one of them in the chest and said something; the officer responded by slamming him in the side of the head with his musket; the scene shifted and became more chaotic. There was screaming, church bells ringing in every direction, and the British Army began firing into the crowd of civilians unexpectedly, killing and injuring multiple people, while armed shopkeepers fired back, screaming ‘Murderers!’ at them._

Why would he dream such a horrible thing? 

Alexander shivered at the icy fear that trickled down his spine, and shuffled over to his desk.

Trying to tune out the flashes and crash-boom noises, the boy picked up his quill and began to record tonight's dream in the diary he kept for specifically this sort of occasion. It was more than half full, as he had been having these sorts of awful night fantasies since he was eight years old.

If there was a reason his mind was tormenting him this way, he would put the pieces together soon or later.

* * *

The next morning, they had visitors over for tea. 

It was still chilly, according to his mother, so they had the fireplace in the parlor lit, and Alexander was getting increasingly uncomfortable. 

Eventually, it was too warm for him to bear any longer, so he politely asked to be excused, turning to Mr. and Lady Bennett and bowing, "It was very nice to meet you Sir, Ma'am. Until your next visit." He offered a smile before hurrying out of the room with a sigh, leaning against the wall. His head was spinning and he felt nauseated, his breathing had gone shallow. For some reason, he had always disliked the heat, but lately it was getting worse; not to mention more difficult to hide his condition from his parents. He didn't want them to think him ill, they were always so overly concerned by his health, and he found it unnecessary. 

As he was trying to gather the energy to return to his room and rest, there was a repetitive tapping on the front door, and he heard a chair gently glide against the floor of the parlour, "Please excuse me for a moment, I will get it." 

His mother preferred to greet guests at the door rather than have one of the servants ( _slaves_ , his mind correctly sourly) do it.

Ducking behind the coat-stand so she wouldn't see him ill, he let out a breath when she passed him without notice. 

When she was at the door, Alexander was about to sneak passed her, when he heard with perfect clarity the Bennetts speaking quietly under their breath, and froze at their words. 

"Still trying to pass that foundling brat off as their own child? How sad." The woman scoffed judgmentally. 

Her husband murmured along in agreement, "Quite. Everyone knows they have only been married eight years. Besides, he looks nothing like her. He must be Washington's bastard." 

Alexander's hands curled into fists, anger boiling in his veins. 

"No, you think? I always thought they shared similar features... so that story about finding him on the beach—"

"A story to gain sympathy no doubt. Look at him, no one from around here has eyes like _that_. He's probably the child of some Mulatto whore that plants his wheat. Poor Martha, having to see him every day and be reminded of her husband's past mistake." 

_Mistake._

Alexander fled the hallway and up the stairs so quickly he nearly knocked over the coat stand—and Patsy—in his desperation to get away. 

The moment he was in his room, he locked the door and collapsed against it, tears of shame and hurt welling up in his eyes. 

From around the time he was six he knew Martha and George weren't his blood parents, he had found the papers in his father's office one evening when the door was left open and he'd gone searching for a quill after breaking his own. He'd found the papers in an unlocked drawer, declaring him a foundling, a deserted child. It had been confusing at first, but after consulting Sophia (who may or may not have known why he was asking), he had come to the conclusion that his parents must have taken him in for a deceased friend or a widowed woman who couldn't take care of him.

He was _fine_ with that. 

There had been a moment of curiosity, of sadness, knowing he wasn't a Washington by blood, but after that had been genuine love and gratitude that they had been kind enough to raise him as their own. 

He knew he was lucky, there were certainly worse places he could have ended up. 

All these years, and Alexander had never... not _once_ , considered that he might have been George's illegitimate son.

Wiping his eyes and breathing shakily as he stood up, the young boy crossed the room to where a beautiful, oval giltwood mirror hung on his wall, until he was less than a foot away from it, and _stared_.

Studied his reflection.

On a glance, he didn't really look like either of them; his lips were fuller and his eyes were a strange color. Alexander had always thought they were special, a shade of blue that sometimes looked violet or turquoise, depending on the lighting, what he wore... sometimes they even got darker when he was angry. But really paying attention, he had to admit he did look like his father. The oblique chin, the arch of his eyebrows and locks of dark red-brown hair that fell in waves past his ears. He wasn't tall like him, but their faces were... _similar_.

Alexander wrapped his arms around himself as the tears came again, flooding down his cheeks and hitting the floor as he bowed his head, the cruel words ringing in his ears.

_Foundling brat. Bastard. Mulatto whore's child._

Perhaps this was why they acted so strangely around him sometimes - the shame? 

That had to be it. Of course he was an embarrassment to them; his very existence tarnished his father's legacy, he was a badly kept secret that George was too honorable to quietly hide away. 

No, no. That wasn't right... they loved him, didn't they? They were proud of him, they said so often enough.

_If that were true, then why have they never spoken a word to you about the circumstances behind your parentage?_

Heartbroken, the young boy curled up on his bedroom floor and sobbed into his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Alexander is having dream premonitions of the future, including the Boston Massacre. He doesn’t understand what is is yet, though.


	9. Manipulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Alexander is lost, he turns to a friend in his time of need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Mentions of slavery, parent/child dispute, running away, non-consensual drug use, kidnapping, and implied mild depression.

_September, 1770_

"You need to stop this." 

Alexander glared at his brother, "Thank you very much, Jacky. Shouldn't you be at school?" 

"Hey, somebody's gotta keep your dumb ass from gettin' shot!" The fifteen-year-old grinned and ruffled his younger stepbrother's hair, and if it hadn't been for Washington's tight grip on the angry boy's shoulder, he would have punched him in his stupid smug face.

Before it could escalate any further, George took that moment to interject, "Alright, John, that's enough. Leave us be so I can speak with your brother privately." 

_'Good luck',_ Jacky mouthed at him before leaving.

Once they were alone, Alexander deflated, looking at the ground as he felt the weight of his father's stare.

"Do you want to tell me what exactly it is you were doing out so late at night, young man?"

The teenager bristled at being talked to like a child, "Not particularly."

Washington took a deep breath, " _Alexander..._ " he warned, in that tone of voice that suggested his patience was wearing thin, and the next step would be grounding him or some other type of punishment for his continued refusal to answer properly. 

Alexander mumbled something under his breath. 

"What was that?"

"I said..." The boy paused and let out a breath, rocking back on his heels, "I was at a meeting with some friends..." Chancing a glance up from underneath his eyelashes, he saw George watching him expectantly, wanting more information. "...we were protesting the Crown's taxes, and their unfair and brutal treatment towards the Colonists." He finally admitted, waiting for the inevitable. 

His father's expression shifted from anger and annoyance to concern in an instant, easily reading between the lines and seeing what Alexander had hoped he wouldn't. "You've been associating with that group, the Sons of Liberty? Alexander have you gone mad?" He demanded. 

"I have not! We're standing up for the greater good!" He argued.

Washington was having none of it, "You're _standing_ with people who assault government officials, and vandalize public property!" 

All he saw were the news headlines from earlier that year about what happened in Boston... five people dead and even more injured because they had openly mocked and attacked British officers. Alexander wasn’t a violent boy, he would never throw bricks or glass bottles at soldiers, he wasn’t stupid, but he was _passionate_ and George could all too easily imagine him getting caught up in something he shouldn’t.

He didn’t want to imagine his son at one of these protests if things suddenly took a dark turn.

People had also been going missing as of late in larger communities, young children and teenage boys and girls mostly; there was some talk at the church recently by parents who were concerned that these supposed 'freedom fighters' were engaging in cult activity; why else would their well-behaved children suddenly be breaking the rules or running away all together? This wasn't the proper way to protest injustice.

The boy scoffed, "What government? We _have_ no representatives. The King tells us to do something and we're just supposed to kiss his rear and agree to it! I will not silence my opinions just because you disagree with them!" _Besides, I have to do this, I have to make up for where I failed..._ he thought, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. _I could have stopped it, if I had only figured out sooner that the dreams I was having were real._

"Alexander!" George gently grabbed his son by the arm, "You are free to _whatever_ opinion you have, son, I have never told you what you are and aren't allowed to believe in. But I'll _not_ have you running around all hours of the night with these delinquents and getting yourself hurt, or worse. This isn't a game, Alexander. The British Army already considers any act against the father country's rule an act of treason." He said sternly, but there was a note of genuine fear in his words. "For your own good, I want you to promise me that you will cut off all contact with those people, _immediately_."

He looked up into the man's eyes, "I have never lied to you before, Father, and I don't intend to start now." He whispered, his voice evidently upset, but nonetheless still earnest.

George's expression softened, "Alexander—"

"May I be excused, please?" 

Wordlessly, he released his son and watched him flee the room, knowing he was about to lock himself in his quarters and wallow in his own tears. Alexander refused to let anyone see him cry. 

_My boy, what has happened to you?_

He was always such a good child, and for the most part he still was, but a few years back... something had _changed_.

Alexander no longer confided in him the way he once did, and he would have dismissed it as the thirteen year old growing more independent and wanting privacy, but he was only distant with him. Washington couldn't think of anything that may have happened to cause this. The child hadn't referred to him as 'Papa' in so long, he only called him 'Father' or 'Sir' now, avoided physical contact, and overall their relationship felt strained. His own son spoke to him like a servant would, formal and respectful but lacking in any real depth. 

What had he done to drive the boy away from him?

They had their disagreements; Alexander had been telling him since he was eight that he wanted nothing to do with the household slaves or any of them, for that matter. It made him uncomfortable. But they had agreed to respect each other's opinions, even if George disagreed with the boy refusing to allow help with anything, be it meals or laundry or anything in between. Still, he had allowed him the freedom to make that choice, because his son was fiercely independent and to this day he still felt a pang of guilt when he learned that the child, then nine, had befriended the daughter of a couple who had escaped with their children. 

* * *

_Washington found the doll under Alexander's pillow months after the desertion of four of Martha's dowry slaves._

_Deep down he knew something like this would happen eventually; he could see the unhappiness in his boy's eyes whenever he was reminded of anything to do with slavery. To the point he avoided meals served by them until his parents relented and agreed to let him cook for himself. His son would go outside and talk to the field workers, and come back with such sadness radiating off of him._

_His boy saw a different side of him that day, when he put together the connection between the doll and the family who had left, he had to question Alexander, to see if he knew anything regarding their whereabouts._

_Alexander had responded to his pushing by snatching the doll back and cradling it in his arms like it was made of something precious. Ada had given the handmade doll to him as a thank you for the pretty lavender ribbons he had bought for her with his allowance, because hers were tattered and stringy and didn't hold her hair very well anymore. He didn't realize until after she was gone it was also a 'goodbye' gift._

_"Why don't you believe me?!"_

_George's jaw tightened, "I do. The issue is that you hid this from your mother and I for months, Alexander."_

_The response only makes Alexander angry._

_"Because she was scared of you! I wouldn't have kept it a secret but she said we had to because we would get in trouble! And she was right!" He's staring up at his Papa with wet eyes and trembling hands, and something inside him ached. He wants his Adannaya back. She would help him make sense of it all. He just wanted his friend back. "She was right, wasn't she? You're going to find them and make them come back because we broke the rules and she's going to hate me."_

_"Alexander—"_

_He raised his chin, "Just leave them alone, please? They're happier being away from here, Papa."_

_"I can't do that, son. You don't understand, this is a part of life. You will see it when you're older."_

_Even then he knew it was a lie; his child would never accept it, he had a resolve of steel._

_Alexander scowled at the terrible answer. His father was talking to him like he was stupid, like he was too young to understand. But he saw it clearly now, probably for the first time in his life. "I don't want to see it!" The nine-year-old insisted, tears welling up in his eyes. "And I want no part of... of whatever you call that out there! It's wrong! I hate it!" His bottom lip wobbled, "And I **hate** you!" _

_His father take a step back, the pain written all across his face; he wanted to hug him and apologize, to take it all back and explain that he didn't mean it, he was just upset because he loved Adannaya and now he would never get to see her again._

_Instead the boy clutched a pillow against his chest and sobbed into it, sinking to the floor miserably as Washington turned and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him._

* * *

Eventually the tension had faded, though it no less of a heartbreaking way.

His son had woke up screaming during a violent storm and was crying and shaking, caught in a terrible panic, and he kept repeating that he was 'going to drown'. 

George held Alexander tightly as he sobbed into his father's chest, pleading with him not to let the monster kill him, and saying he was sorry for being a bad son, which had admittedly conjured a few tears of his own. 

Even years after the fact his child was being affected by that damn storm that nearly took his life in more than one way. 

Forced between the thought of losing his boy over their different points of view and relenting, he agreed to let Alexander - or Sophia, whom he had been paying to watch the children ever since he had hired her as his nanny - to do his own chores. He would not remove the bell from his room, more so because he feared the boy having no way to ask for help if something happened to him in the night, though he knew from experience the prodigy wouldn't use it. 

After that damage to their relationship had been repaired, Alexander seemed fine again, until one day shortly after he turned ten something just... changed. 

He couldn't say what, even more than three years later, but he wished he could fix it. 

Martha kept insisting that Alexander was simply growing up, feeling more rebellious and outspoken in his beliefs, that his personality would settle as he reached adulthood and he would once more be the carefree and loving child they had raised. He wasn't so sure. 

Realizing that stewing over this all night was only going to make himself feel worse about the situation, he left the parlor and returned to bed. 

He and Alexander could discuss it more in the morning, hopefully with a clearer head on both of their shoulders.

The next morning, however, Alexander didn't come down for breakfast. 

Jacky volunteered to go get him; he would never say so, but George knew the young man cared deeply for his little stepbrother, which was the whole reason why he had told their father that the boy had sneaked away to begin with. Lazy as he could be, he was fiercely protective of his younger siblings and would frequently cover it up with his jokes and teasing of them. 

A few minutes later his stepson came bolting down the stairs, his face bone white, "Alexander is gone!"

"What?"

Martha sat back, concerned, and George cursed, "He's with those rebels again." 

"No, he's not," Jacky exhaled and shoved a handful of letters across the table to his parents, who began to scan them. 

They were addressed to Alexander, from... Doctor Arason?

He picked one up and began reading it, gray blue eyes quickly skimming the elegant writing.

"My God..."

* * *

Alexander had taken one last look at Mount Vernon before leaving.

He knew he would break their hearts, but it just didn't feel like home anymore. 

Between the inevitable rebellion against the Crown on the horizon, the sickeningly pervasive acceptance of slavery in the south, and the unceasing premonitions disguised as dreams he was having, he couldn't bear to remain there a moment longer. He needed answers, and he wasn't going to get them from the people that sought to protect him from everything and anything. 

Someday, when he was a man who had seen the world and what it had to offer, when he had gotten his education and made his name known, he would return, and then they would have a reason to be proud of him. 

Then, he would be more than just some motherless illegitimate child that stained his father's reputation. 

As soon as the door opened, he wiped his eyes and smiled, "Thank you for agreeing to help me, Viktor." He threw his arms around the man, who patted him a couple of times on the back before stepping aside to invite him in. 

Viktor Arason had saved his life when he was a boy and had gotten dangerously ill, and a thank you letter had turned into frequent correspondence between them. 

Before long, he was confiding in the man, about... well, everything.

How out of place he felt in his own home, how stifling Virginia felt, his hurt and confusion regarding his unclear parentage; the man had been like a second father to him, in all honesty. There were things he could talk about with Viktor that he simply couldn't with George, because it would wound the other man's feelings as well as his opinion of Alexander. 

That was why, when his family was visiting with Viktor’s in his home one evening and he and Viktor’s youngest child, his daughter Amelia, had been playing, Alexander did not say anything when he stumbled upon evidence of some of the man’s misdeeds. Embezzlement was a serious crime but other than that, Viktor was a good man who helped others... and he’d saved him.

Keeping his secret was the least Alex could do for him.

"Alexander, I'm so glad you decided to come, would you like some tea?" 

He took his coat off and hung it up by the door, "That would be nice, thank you, Sir." 

Looking around the house, he felt himself relax at the familiar sight, though he had only been there three or four times. Dr. Arason kept no slaves; all of his servants were hired and paid, both the white ones and the black ones. "It's quiet here. Is Amelia back in school already?" He thought of the shy, beautiful green-eyed girl and felt a twinge of disappointment that she didn't appear to be home. Also, concern. Even with his business, he thought that Viktor probably was quite lonely often, his wife had passed nearly eight years ago, and his sons were grown up and in college, so having his youngest child study abroad was likely difficult for him. 

"Unfortunately, yes, you just missed her by three days, I'm afraid." Viktor told the boy as he moved towards the kitchen to prepare a pot of tea for them. "How did last night go, with your father?" 

Alexander froze. 

_Shit_. He forgot to burn the letters!

"It went well, I think. He's sad that I'm leaving of course, but he knows I'll be back and gave me his blessing to go on the trip with you; he knows you're responsible and will keep me out of trouble." He chuckled, hoping it would hide the hint of nervousness in his voice; it was too late for him to go back for them, he would never make it back out of the house with everybody awake. "I'm all packed and ready to go. What time are we leaving?"

If his father noticed the letters on his desk he was going to kill both of them. 

"Excellent news, my boy!" Viktor returned to the sitting room with a silver tray, setting it down on the table. He took a deep breath and the scent of chamomile loosened the knot of anxiety in his chest. "We will be leaving for the docks shortly, and setting off within the hour. Are you nervous?" 

He flushed and looked down, "That obvious, huh?"

"You've never been on a sea voyage before, it's natural to be apprehensive." 

The boy nodded and reached for the teacup closest to him, blowing on the hot beverage gently before taking a sip. "I suppose. Is the Caribbean nice this time of year?"

Viktor smiled, "It is nice nearly year round, actually, with the exception of an occasional storm." He saw the young teen tense up and quickly reassured him, "They are quite easy to maneuver away from, Alexander, and somewhat rare to encounter in the first place. You will be fine."

Despite his reservations about going to sea, Alexander knew he wanted this, he felt himself growing more at ease by the moment.

Soon enough he would be leaving the Colonies and experiencing island life, learning many new things and getting away from Virginia for a much needed separation from everything it stood for. 

He hoped his family would forgive him one day. 

"Are you still having the dreams? And the strange feelings you described in your letters?" Viktor asked him, but his voice sounded far away.

The boy didn't even realize he had begun to nod off until he dropped his teacup by mistake, wincing as the delicate porcelain shattered on the floor. "Oh! I'm so sorry, let me—" He bent down to clean it up, and his vision doubled for a moment, causing him to grip the table in an effort to steady himself. His movements felt clumsy and uncoordinated, not to mention how drowsy he was.

When his focus returned to him, he noticed something... unusual.

The tea had spilled all over the floor, but there was something in the broken cup shards; brown and unpleasant looking. 

"Is everything alright, Alexander? Don't worry about the mess, Maya will clean it when she returns from her breakfast."

Alexander tried to lift his head but found himself feeling heavy and sluggish, "Viktor...?" 

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor vaguely registered in his senses as he fell back against the couch, the chandelier on the ceiling multiplying in his vision as he squinted. 

Suddenly, the light was blocked out as the bespectacled doctor appeared above him, and there was a look of unmistakable fondness in his eyes. 

"W-What's... happ’ning...?" His words were garbled and unclear. It was so hard to form words, to _think_. 

A hand brushed through his hair and his eyes closed instinctively at the familiar, paternal gesture. 

"Oh, Alexander, you may be smart, but you are a positively _rotten_ liar." 

"Huh?" What was he talking about?

The hand left his hair, "Fortunately, I am not. Nor will I be joining you on that ship today, I'm afraid; worry not though, you will be far from alone on your voyage. I would be concerned of your dear father coming after me, but I know you had no intention of telling him about our plans. Which means he won't know where to look when you disappear. I’m so sorry to have to do this, dear boy, it was an unplanned hiccup that you accidentally stumbled upon my little side venture..." 

As everything faded to black, the last thing he felt was Viktor picking him up and hoisting him over his shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one day? Le gasp! 
> 
> I probably didn't need to do that big of a timeskip but as much fun as writing cute lil Alex is, I want to get to the Revolutionary War soon with Laurens, Herc, Laf and the others soon! Fortunately I have a little more angst in store first before we get to that.


	10. Unspeakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was nothing Washington wouldn't do to protect his son.
> 
> Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Mentions of slavery, graphic description of human trafficking, graphic ATTEMPTED rape/sexual assault of a child, molestation of a child, violence, kidnapping, mentions of torture/interrogation techniques.
> 
> If you don't want to read what almost happens to Alexander for any reason, you can just stop Washington stops questioning Arason; if you do not want to know about that part either, stop reading at 'He just wanted to go home' and skip to the next chapter, which will be far less graphic. I'm serious, it's a pretty descriptive scene of sexual assault and /almost/ rape from the victim's POV, so if you're bothered by that sort of thing please don't read it, I won't be offended if you skip this part.

_September, 1770_

The moment the door opened, Washington had him by the front of his waistcoat. 

_"Where is he?"_

Viktor Arason stumbled backwards as the furious man dragged him into his home, before managing to get his footing, "I'm sure I have no idea to what you are referring, Sir—" He began, before a handful of letters was shoved at him, causing him to falter, surprised, before dropping all pretense. "I see. Your boy is a bit sloppy when it comes to leaving evidence behind, Washington. I would work on that with your next one." He smirked, the cocky expression on his face so uncharacteristic of the doctor he had been friends with for _over half a decade_. "You really shouldn't coddle the lad so much, children need to be allowed the opportunity to make their own choices, you know."

He shoved the man onto the ground, "I never thought you of all people would manipulate a child this way, Viktor!" He snarled, disgusted, and caught sight of his boy's coat - emerald green and trimmed in gold embroidery - hanging on the rack that stood near the door, along with his travel trunk. "Where is my son, Arason? Is he here? _Alexander!_ " He stepped away from him a moment, searching the nearby rooms with poorly concealed panic. 

The correspondence made him feel sick. 

Arason had been turning his son against him for _years_ ; he could read between the lines, the false reassurances that served to make Alexander question his father's love for him, the subtle urging of his more rebellious and reckless tendencies. 

_I should have known._

"If you think I am going to let you haul my son off on some I’ll-conceived exploration of the West Indies, after you _lied to him about his mother and I, you have well and truly lost your mind, my friend!"_

He was startled when the doctor started laughing, standing up and brushing himself off, "Oh, please! Martha is not the boy’s mother, who are you even trying to convince at this point; you don’t know anything about your son, or you would have realized years ago that he stopped believing he was your legitimate child around the age of seven. Insult me all you'd like, my dear George, I'm afraid you're too late to do anything about it, regardless. Your son should have kept his nose out of matters that don’t concern him, maybe then this would not have happened." 

The tight feeling in his chest only grew; where was his son? His belongings were accounted for, but there was no sign of him. If Arason had _harmed_ him in any way, they would never find the doctor’s corpse once George was through with the man. He would have him buried under the wheat fields for the insects to feed upon.

"What are you _talking_ about? I _am_ his father, and I’m not ashamed of that fact, the identity of his mother is unimportant! Where is he, Viktor? I... I know you cared a great deal for Alexander at one point. Our children used to play together, remember? Surely you have some scruples against luring a faultless boy away from his parents? Whatever quarrel you have with me can be settled among the two of us as gentlemen." He was just about pleading now. “Give me my son back, he is innocent.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow at him and shook his head, "Strong words coming from a man who made his fortune on the backs of slaves." 

If looks could kill, the Dane would have perished right then and there. 

"That has nothing to do with this!"

"On the contrary, it does. Or are you going to pretend your ownership of fellow men didn't help drive your son away? He prays for a war to break out on a nightly basis just so he can get away from you and your _Mount Vernon_ , George. Your business practices disgust him." Viktor chuckled at the positively _murderous_ expression on his face. Clearly, he had no sense of self preservation, for the former Colonel was a hair's breadth from ringing his damn neck. "Honestly, Washington, I'm disappointed. I thought you were smarter than this, let me spell it out for you—" He spread his hands out, "—with the increasing need for cheap and easily replaced laborers these days, sometimes one must go looking for it in less than virtuous sources, no?" 

It took nary a second for the horrifying realization to dawn on George.

_The missing children._

So it wasn't cult practice leading them to run away; they were being taken. 

That mean that Alexander was—

Bile rose in the back of his throat.

"You son of a bitch!" His hands were around Viktor's throat in an instant, slamming him against the banister of his staircase. "What have you done with my son?!" 

God, no.

He sold him, he _sold_ his boy. 

Alexander was so young, so frail, and children like him, without parents, didn't survive long on a plantation...

_If he even survived long enough to make it to one._

This betrayal of him and his son... all because, what, his boy had accidentally discovered some shady connections Viktor had? That was downright monstrous; the teenager wouldn’t have breathed a word of it even if he did know anything, he was loyal to a fault!

"How could you _do_ this?! Alexander trusted you! He has a family!"

Through his own seething thoughts and the pained wheezing laughter of the doctor came the gut-wrenching understanding; his child lured away by someone he thought was a friend, only to be... 

"As do, I'm sure, all of the workers on your plantation," he rasped, coldly indifferent to the man's obvious devastation. "What of it? You think your boy is _special_ somehow just because he's white? Purportedly, that is. He'll be of just as much value on the black market as any other his age. This is the real world, George, and sometimes you don’t always get to keep what you have."

He suddenly shoved Washington off of him with surprising strength, "I'll not tell you where he is, Sir, and good luck finding him on time without my cooperation - no one will believe you if you tell them what I’ve said here today, not after all the turmoil you caused with the French."

The dark look that spread across George's face made Arason want to take a step back, although he had nowhere to go at this point. 

Washington brushed himself off and calmly turned around and locked the front door.

He would get an answer, one way or another.

* * *

Alexander awoke in near total blackness.

It was dark and stuffy on the ship—he believed that's what it was, the holes in the walls that let in small amounts of light reminded him of a ship's porthole—the smell was horrific and his head was throbbing. Had he been struck? The boy tried to touch his head only to realize with a start that he could barely move. The faint clanking sound of chains and cold, heavy weight around his wrists made his heartbeat quicken. 

His wrists and ankles were shackled to the floor.

"Where am I?" he whispered, his throat tight with alarm. 

The thirteen-year-old could hear other people in the...cargo hold, he supposed it was, quiet breathing and hushed tones, like whoever he was with were terrified to raise their voices even slightly. 

Suddenly consumed with terror, Alexander started struggling, violently yanking at the chains, tears stinging his eyes when he realized it was around his neck too. He couldn't even stand up. _Helpless_. He kicked and rattled the shackles, trying to get them open with all his might, and gasped when he felt someone hit him on the arm. "Knock it off! If they send someone down here because of the noise we'll all be in big trouble!" A voice beside him, a boy that sounded about Jacky's age, hissed in a Carolinian accent.

He stilled, if only because he was relieved he had someone to talk to now, "W-Who are _they?_ Where _are_ we? I don't understand." 

There was no answer for a moment, and he got the distinct feeling he wasn't the first person to ask this boy that question, after a few seconds passed in silence, he sighed, "You're on a ship that's gonna be headed to the West Indian islands, kid. We've been... taken, sold. By our parents or masters or whoever wanted us gone. They're going to sell us as slaves." 

Alexander felt his stomach churn as denial and panic both rocketed through him. _Sold?_ That didn’t make any sense! "No, that's not possible, why would anyone do that to me? I-I'm not..."

Then he remembered Viktor and... the chamomile tea.

_A brown gooey substance stuck to the inside of the now shattered cup._

Opium. The doctor had put opium in it. 

He'd done this to him... rendered him unconscious and... brought him to this place? 

_But why?_

"This is a mistake." His voice cracked, a few tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. "I'm not supposed to be here! He said we were going on a trip together! He’s like family, he wouldn’t do this to me!"

He felt the stranger squeeze his shoulder, "Shh, it's... it's okay. It's going to be okay."

The other boy was lying, he could tell, and the feeling of a hand rubbing up and down his back just made him want to break down sobbing. Oh, God, he'd made such a horrible mistake.

"What's your name?" 

"A-Alex..." He sniffled, trying to rein in his emotions and failing miserably. "My name is Ale-Alexander..." he bit his lip so hard it nearly bled.

"Okay." A firm, callused hand suddenly gripped his own tightly, and he squeezed it back without really thinking of it, letting the feeling ground him before he could start hyperventilating. "Alexander, my name is John. Can you take a deep breath for me? Please?" The boy inhaled a shaky gasp, and the other's thumb rubbed against his palm. "Good, that’s good. You need to be very quiet, okay? I know you're afraid... but the people out there watching us? They're very bad, and if we make too much of a racket they'll come in here, and you really don't want that, understand?"

When he didn't get an answer after a few seconds, John gave his hand another squeeze, "Did you hear me?"

He nodded jerkily, and despite the darkness, the older boy appeared to understand, "Good. Just keep breathing, in and out, in and out... Yeah, just like that... Tell me about yourself," he suggested in a whisper, "How old are you? What... uh, what do you wanna be when you're grown?" 

Alexander shut his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing for a moment, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest. It wouldn’t do to have a fit now, but he couldn’t help the fact that he suffered from bouts of serious anxiety; it’d been like that since he was a child.

"Um... I-I... I'm going to be fourteen this coming January." He stammered, and the older boy tensed up beside him with a sharp inhale, but he didn't question it, afraid his precarious grip on the swelling panic inside of him would break if he focused on anything other than the questions he was being asked. "I don't... r-really know? I like to write... but.. I want to be a soldier, like my f-father..." Oh, God, he wanted his family back. _I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry._ "O... or maybe a statesman..."

"That sounds like... fun?" John offered hesitantly, and Alexander couldn't help the wobbly grin that appeared on his face when he heard the obvious skepticism, though it did nothing to stem the flow of tears cascading down his cheeks. 

He just wanted to go home.

* * *

It wasn't the first time he had done this.

Washington was no longer an officer with the British Army, but there were some things you didn't forget, no matter how dearly you wished that you could. 

_The doctor hadn't expected this kind of questioning_ , he thought grimly as the man gasped and choked, twisting against the ropes as cold water was poured over the rag covering his mouth and nose. He had the chair tipped back at an angle, so there was no reprieve from it. The drowning probably made him wish that the ex-soldier had continued breaking his fingers instead. 

At least three or more hours had passed and this technique seemed by far the most effective; it was a God awful thing to go through and to witness, to experience the illusion of drowning over and over again would wear down the bravado and sanity of any man eventually. The risk of death was not mild, but at this point he couldn't bring himself to care if the bastard lived or died.

He swore to himself when he resigned his commission that he would never do such terrible things again, not for his _King_ or anyone else. 

It was cruel and inhumane, and he'd hated it every moment he had been made to do it in the past...

But for Alexander's safety, he would do all this a thousand times and more. The distaste he held for such monstrous forms of interrogation was incomparably _minuscule when measured against the love he had for the boy he’d raised for thirteen and a half years._

It wasn't much longer before Arason broke down. 

_N-Norfolk, in Princess Anne County!_ He had gasped out between ragged breaths, _There's a ship on the water, a little less than two hundred miles, Southeast of here!_

Just what he needed. 

Washington cut him free of his bindings and grabbed the man's arm, a grim finality on his face that evidently frightened his once-friend as he tried in vain to twist himself out of his grasp. He grabbed the hilt of his switchblade and began to cut into his right wrist, while the man howled and writhed in agony as the blade sliced through nerves and tendons.

A makeshift tourniquet was tied tightly over the wound, and he pulled him close and spoke, low and venomously, "If you _ever_ come near my son or anyone in my family again, I'll have your neck in a noose before you can even think of running."

He didn't need to kill the bastard; but he could ensure he never practiced his prized profession ever again.

It was the least he deserved for destroying his child's trust.

George pocketed the blade, collected Alexander's belongings from near the doorway, and left. 

_I'm coming for you son._

* * *

The boy had cried himself to sleep in the cramped corner that he had deemed his own. 

He didn't even realize it until the sound of the door unlocking dragged him back to consciousness, "W...What's going on?" he muttered groggily, his voice ragged from his earlier tears, and also thirst.

How long had they been here?

It felt like days, but it couldn't have been more than a few hours, surely?

John sat up quickly beside him, "Inspection. Get on your knees." He ordered, and the urgent tone of voice made Alexander do as he said without question just as the light of a lantern flooded the dark, horrible room. He squinted, his stomach plummeting as he realized there weren't just a handful of children in here, but _dozens_. He recognized some of them from the missing flyers he'd seen in town. Some of them had disappeared over a month ago; they all looked so scared and hungry and... broken. 

Footsteps stomped across the cargo hold, causing some of them to flinch and bow their heads; he copied them instinctively. 

The light passed by a group of girls that were huddled together in frightened distress and lingered in his area. He closed his eyes, his stomach nearly revolting against the quick breakfast he'd scarfed down before leaving home, however long ago that was. One of the girls couldn't have been more than half of Patsy's age. This was so very _wrong_.

Alexander took the risk of peeking up out of the corner of his eye. 

A tall, rough looking man in his forties or fifties, dressed like a guard of some sort, held the light above their heads, examining them. 

" _Don't move_ ," John whispered beside him, and he could practically _feel_ how quickly the other boy's heart was beating. 

The man scoffed and moved further down the line, closer to them, and he couldn't help it; he grabbed the other boy's hand in fear, the chain scraping ever-so-slightly against the floor of the ship. John tensed.

Immediately the lantern swung in their direction, and he heard the male heave an annoyed sigh. 

Alexander looked up and was blinded by the light, causing him to hiss, and nearly yelped when the man was suddenly right beside him, "You'll do." He grumbled, sounding almost bored as he reached for the chain connecting the teenager's restraints, and unlocked the one that attached to the floor, giving the one around his wrists a rough tug, "Up and at 'em boy, Captain wants to see you." 

"Don't!" John suddenly interjected, though his voice was quavering ( _he's brave_ , Alexander realized with surprise and admiration). "Please, he's just a little kid! I’ll go, take me instead!" 

A cry left Alexander as the man whipped around and kicked the boy harshly in the stomach, causing him to double over and retch in pain, "Shut up, you damn troublemaker!"

His new friend was stubborn though, and he grabbed Alexander's ankle in desperation, his turquoise blue eyes blazing with protective fury and something he could only describe as terror. "Stop it! Let go of him! Don't touch him! Jesus Christ, he's _thirteen years old_ , what the _fuck_ is wrong with you people?!" He shouted, and the younger boy couldn't understand why he was so upset, but he knew he trusted his judgement, regardless of how short a time they had known each other.

The light flickered wildly over the cargo hold's walls and he found himself nearly tripping as the brute yanked him towards the exit, his ankle torn from John’s grasp, " _Alexander!!_ "

He made a final anguished reach for the other boy, but his own restraints stopped him from getting too far.

"Where are you taking me?!" He looked over his shoulder and saw the dimming visage of John staring at him helplessly from the ground, a look of pure regret written across his features.

His only response was a more violent tug of the chain, which caused him to lose his balance and fall through the open doorway with a gasp as he hit the floor. 

"Get up!" The man snapped at him.

Alexander shakily did as he was told and tried his best to ignore the wild hammering of his heart as he was half-escorted, half-dragged to the upper deck to what he could only assume was the Captain's quarters; he had never been on a real ship of any sort before, only his father's small sailboat. Before he could make sense of the layout in hopes of a future escape, he was being shoved into a room and the door shut behind him. 

He squinted, eyes quickly adjusting to the meager lighting of the candles that the room offered, he had enough exposure staying up late at night writing next to them that he at least wasn't rendered completely blind. 

The cabin wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either, a polished table had a series of atlas spread out across it, trinkets lined the shelves and... was that a sword? Not like the saber his father had, but the kind you expected to see a pirate wielding. But, that should not have surprised him, should it? These people _were_ pirates. They just didn't deal with the seizing of treasure, but a more... organic cargo. 

Disgusted, he began to look for something he could use to free himself. 

The door opened a moment later, however, and he pressed his body into a corner, holding his breath.

A stocky well-dressed man with hair as black as the night sky lumbered in, a glass in one hand and a decanter in the other. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties; handsome in a roguish sort of way.

He looked like the sort of man a mother would warn her daughter about courting.

Watching warily as the door was shut, the male - he assumed the Captain, given the guard's earlier words and their present location - set his drink down and appeared to scan the room, but despite how dearly he wished it, Alexander did not suddenly gain the ability to become invisible. "Ah, there you are." He lit a lantern that was built into the wall, and suddenly he could see a lot more clearly. "Come over here, young man." 

He hesitated, but then recalled one of John's warnings before he had fallen asleep. 

_You don't want to make them angry._

Reluctantly, he shuffled forward, trying not to let his nerves show. 

The Captain gestured towards the decanter, his smile friendly and inviting, "Would you like a drink?"

_What?_ Alexander shook his head, his guard going up further when he saw the slight frown appear on the man's face, "What's your name?" 

His lips pressed into a thin line, not wanting to answer. 

"Oh, come now, you can tell me your name, can't you? You must have one. I'll tell you mine first, if it makes you feel better. It's Leonard Chambers." He smiled at him like they were old friends, as if there wasn't anything remotely strange about the situation. At least he was acting friendly enough, even if he was a bit odd. "Well?"

"...Alexander." He finally mumbled, something about the whole situation made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Making his way around the table, the man paused suddenly and reached for him, and he froze. A hand touched his cheek, prompting a wince. “Oh, my. You have a wound.” 

Confused, Alexander lifted his hand to his cheek and found there was indeed a cut there, not quite fresh but not yet old enough to have healed over. How on Earth had he gotten that? He couldn’t recall. As he rubbed the injury he felt it reopen from the irritation, blood beginning to drip down the split in his cheek.  Before he could ponder it any further, Leonard had withdrawn a dark blue handkerchief, silk by the looks of it, and embroidered with silver anchors. It was no doubt expensive. 

“Oh, no, Sir, you shouldn’t—“ He was cut off by the thumb that covered his lips for a moment.

“Hush, let me take care of it for you, love.”

_Love?_ That’s what his parents called him, sometimes, though it had been a while since he'd heard it; it was rather peculiar hearing it roll off the tongue of a stranger, but he chose not to question it. 

Perhaps if he remained polite he would not see what had John so terribly afraid, the last thing he wanted was to provoke the man. The kind expression on his face had Alexander relaxing ever so slightly, perhaps it wasn't him who he needed to be frightened of, so far he was much less brutish than the guard he had working for him.  He came across like a reasonable enough person... perhaps he could tell Leonard who he was, pass this all off as a misunderstanding and—

_...and, what? Leave those other children chained up in the hold? Leave John? Abandoned and scared, helpless to God knows what fate is in store for them when the ship leaves? That would be a cowardly thing to do, and you know it._

Alexander closed his eyes as the blood was gently wiped clean. 

Instead of moving away once the task was complete, however, the Captain lingered, his hand smoothed back the boy’s dark hair, tucking the stray locks that had escaped his queue behind his ear. 

He tilted his head up in question, opening his eyes again and looking at the man with innocent perplexity. Something in Leonard’s kind expression changed, and he suddenly leaned in close and—

Lips were covering his own before he could realize what was happening. 

Alexander’s eyes went wide with shock, and he may as well have been a statue for all of ten seconds before his instincts kicked in and he shoved the man away from him with all of his might.  Much as he would have liked to claim responsibility, he was certain the fact that Leonard stumbled had more to do with how much alcohol he must have consumed that night than his own strength; the boy could taste it clinging to his lips like a poison.

“Are you  _mad_ , Sir?!”

Before he could hurl his accusations of perversion at the Captain, he saw a flash of anger on the man’s face at the stunned rejection from the boy, and then he was suddenly sent flying against the wall, dazed as a hot pain blazed across his left cheekbone.  He blinked the spots out of his vision just in time to see the man coming after him, and tried to lunge away only to trip from the short distance allowed between the shackles that encircled his ankles. 

The wind was further knocked out of him as he landed on the floor.

_ He is out of his mind! _

A gasp escaped Alexander as he was grabbed by the back of his waistcoat and dragged roughly to a standing position, but he had no time to recover from his fall before the Captain’s hand was in his hair, dragging him over to the table and he cried out in pain, kicking uselessly as his bound feet suddenly came up off the ground.

“What the hell are you _doing?!_ Release me at once!”

Leonard’s body pushed against his from behind and a sharp whine left the boy as the hard wooden edge of the map table dug painfully into his hips as the man wrestled him into place. “Stop!”

There was suddenly a mouth at the shell of his ear, the words crooned thick with lust and drunkenness, “ _Christ_ , you’re so fucking pretty...” 

Alexander felt all of the blood drain from his face as it suddenly became terrifyingly clear why he was brought to this room, the fear that swept over him left him feeling breathless, his limbs paralyzed with horror as the man continued to molest his ear.

However, the Captain apparently mistook his sudden stillness for submission, because the painful grasp on his hair eased up and his hand suddenly dropped down around them to slide up under Alexander’s waistcoat and shirt, stroking the tense muscles of his stomach.  Sickeningly soft kisses were feathered against his neck and he felt tears pooling in his eyes and sliding silently down his cheeks as he tried desperately to come up with a way out of the situation.

_ Move! Run! Fight back, damn it! _

He couldn’t seem to will his body to listen, he couldn't budge a single muscle. 

In spite of his torpefied state, he could still feel the caresses and kisses, the stroking and exploring hands were gentle as they slid over his skin, as if this man were his lover and not a... a—

_Oh God_ , the man, Leonard, was rubbing against Alexander from behind and he was aroused and the boy had never felt more horrified or repulsed in his _entire life_.

“So _beautiful..._ I can’t wait to fuck you.”

Those words struck him a thousand times harder than a physical blow and suddenly Alexander was mobile again without warning, his chained hands balling into fists in front of him, mind racing. In that moment, he did the only thing he could, threw his head back and slammed it into the man’s face, hearing a crack and a vicious curse as the Captain staggered backwards, cradling his now bleeding nose. 

Alexander didn’t have time to feel relieved; he leaped forward, careful not to force his feet too far apart, and grabbed at the handle of the door, tugging violently and, when he realized it was locked, banging on it with both hands, screaming, “HELP! _Somebody please help me!_ Monster! Demon! Open the door, please! Somebody let me out! _Let me—_ "

A large hand clamped down over his mouth as an arm swung around his waist and lifted him into the air as effortlessly as if he were the weight of a newborn, and he didn’t falter; he kicked and clawed and _screamed_ into the hand that was gagging him, wishing the grip wasn't so painfully tight, or he would have gladly bitten the repugnant degenerate hard enough to relieve him of a few of his fingers, if given the chance. 

"You stupid little bitch!" The captured child was slammed bodily against the door, nearly blacking out as his head made contact with the solid wood, and suddenly he was being flung onto the table, everything spinning as he stared up at the ceiling, dazed, trying to catch his breath and blink the spots out of his eyes. "Shut your mouth before I shut it for you, we both want this and you know it."

Before he could make sense of what was happening, the Captain was on top of him.

He grabbed the chain between his wrists and hauling it over his head as he took a fistful of Alexander’s waistcoat and tore it so violently that the button went flying, his shirt soon followed.

“No! Stop! You vile beast! Get _OFF!_ ” He tried to kick him, but the attempt was worthless, for the Captain had his knees wedged between his thighs, forcibly keeping them apart as much as the shackles would allow. “STOP!”

His words fell on deaf ears, as did the hysterical wail that left Alexander as he felt that disgusting mouth on him again, his neck, his chest, his stomach, licking and sucking and _biting_ at his skin as he cried out, writhing helplessly as the horrifying realization sank in that there was no escaping this, no way to stop it from happening. Still, he tried,  “Please, please _stop this_ , Sir!” he begged, something he had never done before in his short life, exertion and panic from his struggles turning his face red as he twisted under Leonard. The only reply was a much harder bite to Alexander’s lower belly, a ragged whine of pain leaving the youth as hot tears rolled down his face. 

" _I don't want it!_ Please, get off of me!" He cried out, nearly hysterical by this point. "I'll give you whatever you want, please just stop!" 

The Captain's lips were suddenly on his again, a wet tongue forcing itself inside Alexander's mouth, a muffled, alarmed sound leaving him as the taste of the other's saliva made him gag, and he was so disoriented by not being able to breathe that he couldn't even gather the courage to bite down on his tongue before he broke the contact, leaving him to spit at the revolting sensation it had left on his palate and try to draw in as much air as he could. "There's only one thing I want from you, sweet boy. Now be good for me and I'll treat you real nice."

_"No!"_ His tears were making it hard to see, but Alexander could still speak. “S-Stop! I beg of you, Captain, _please_ , you must—“

The young boy's legs flailed and a sob heaved in his chest as his breeches were yanked down around his calves, his vision now completely blinded by his tears.

Oh God, this couldn't be happening to him.

“ _—Stop!_ ”

A too rough hand forced its way between his thighs and fondled Alexander and he _yelped_ , instinctively trying to close his legs, to no avail. The Captain hissed in annoyance at his struggling and hooked the chain of his shackles under one of the decorative knobs on the table and jerked him down further, freeing his own hand and preventing the boy from being able to move his arms and unsnarl the chain. His legs and part of his lower body were left dangling off of the edge of the table, and since his feet weren’t touching the ground he had no leverage to push himself out of this position.

Stripped naked, immobile and stretched out across the table, he had no way to defend himself from the Captain.

“No, NO!” Alexander shouted and renewed his struggles when he realized what Leonard had done.

“I said _shut up!_ ” The young boy was slapped across the face again, tears springing to his eyes in pain and his cheeks red with shame, anger and humiliation. Chambers smirked down at him and he responded the only way he could; by spitting in his face.

The man swore and raised his hand again but Alexander just kept yelling and hissing profanity at the bastard until two fingers were suddenly shoved into his mouth and down his throat, causing him to gag, eyes widening in alarm as he attempted to breathe around them. 

His legs were being spread open as much as the restraints would allow and the hungry eyes raking up and down his body made Alexander want to squirm and cover himself, but there was nowhere he could go and his hands were still secured above him. The teenager shook his head and made a garbled protest around the fingers in his mouth, his eyes watering as the helplessness and restricted air made him feel like he was going to black out or throw up, or both. Leonard ran his free hand down over the boy's chest and belly before leaning down and Alexander wailed when the man's head disappeared between his legs, finally removing his fingers and allowing him to suck in a wet gasp of air.

He squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip so hard his teeth nearly cut through it and flinching when he felt the man's mouth on his genitals, hot and wet and completely revolting, the sense of despair reached a tipping point when his body responded to the touches against his will, unwanted pleasure spreading through his groin, his thighs starting to shake as he let out a weak moan and squirmed. He tried to strain and pull away from it but Leonard held him in place and kept _licking_ and _sucking_ , heedless of the boy’s heart breaking in his chest. The horrible feeling in his stomach kept growing worse, and Alexander sobbed as a rush of frightening sensations washed over him and he strained against the chains as climax overwhelmed the terrified young boy. 

He heard the man chuckle in response, petting the inside of his leg, and turned his head away, crying into the sleeve of his ruined shirt and trying to catch his breath, his stomach churning unpleasantly. This was so, _so wrong_. When the Captain forced a finger inside of him without warning, slick with his own saliva, he gasped and then whined in pain when it started moving, rubbing against him, and he writhed, violet eyes wide and full of tears.

_Someome! Help me, please! Jacky! Make him stop, oh God no... John! Please, it hurts... no more! Papa, please help me Papa!_

The boy was shaking his head back and forth pathetically as he tried to pull himself away from the unwanted penetration, wincing and arching his back when another finger was forced inside him, twisting and shoving deeper. The stretch burned and he felt sick to his stomach and so, so _awful_. "No, no, please, it h-hurts..." he whispered hoarsely, but his limbs, while trembling, no longer fought back against the restraints.

 _Mamma... Papa... I’m sorry..._

Alexander stared up at the ceiling, his eyes wet with tears, trying to block it out. The embarrassment, the vulnerability, the fear and disgust... he shoved it all away and tried to focus on anything else.

Instead of what was happening, he imagined himself floating out of his own body and far away from this awful place and everything bad in the world. Now, he was somewhere nice like the beach back home, and everyone he cared about was there with him. He could see Mamma and Papa slow dancing together on the grass by the wharf, Sophia was there and Jacky and Patsy were splashing each other in the water and even John was there, free and warm in the sunshine and they were all happy and together, and he was _safe_.

But then there was the touch of a gentle hand on his cheek and a thumb wiping away his tears that drew him, unwillingly, back to the hellish present, and he flinched when the man kissed his forehead.

"That's it, good boy..." he murmured, and then suddenly he was being flipped over onto his stomach.

Instantly, any semblance of broken calmness the child had managed vanished; he _knew_ what was coming next and every instinct in his body _screamed_ against it, so he thrashed and fought back, because no. _No!_ He wasn't letting this happen, he would sooner see one or both of them dead before he just allowed it! Chambers paid him no mind and forced his legs open and—

Alexander might have been screaming, he couldn't tell, all he knew was that felt more vulnerable and exposed than he _ever_ had in his whole life, his breaths were coming in harsh gasps as sheer terror and understanding overwhelmed his senses, realizing with a horrifying clarity what was about to happen but utterly helpless to stop it. 

He was going to pass out, and then the man could do whatever he wanted with him.

“No, _oh God_ , don't! _No no no no no_ , please don't, please, _please—_ "

The door suddenly went flying off of its hinges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That was a lot of emotion... 
> 
> For those of you that are direction-challenged (like me; I had to Google this to make it sound somewhat plausible), Alexandria, the city where Viktor works/lived, is somewhat close to Mount Vernon, and by car would be about 3 hours away from the Norfolk area. Princess Anne County used to be part of Virginia Colony in pre-Revolution "British America" and is now part of Virginia Beach, if I got that right. So around 190 miles. Carriage horses depending on fitness can trot 10-15 miles an hour so it would take Washington a while to get there since he didn't realize Alexander was missing for several hours.
> 
> For the sake of convenient timing I’m going to say he managed to get there in just under 15 hours, though I’m probably not 100% accurate here. So Alex was missing from 6am, and according to mountvernon.org the Washingtons usually had breakfast around 7:00am. If we say they didn't realize he was missing until 8:00, and add the 3 1/2 hours it took GW to get to Viktor's place and interrogate him, that's 11:30 in the morning, plus 15 hours, = 2:00am. So Alex was gone for just under a day, hope that helps!


	11. In Your Arms

_September, 1770_

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning by the time Washington finally arrived in Norfolk.

He hadn't told his family where he was going, beyond that he needed to have a word with Viktor Arason, so he was sure they must have been in a frantic state by now, but he didn't have the time to return to Mount Vernon before making his way here. If what the doctor had said was true, then the ship was scheduled to leave that day, just before breakfast time.

As soon as he laid eyes the ship, the yearning to see his child again was nearly overwhelming. Somewhere on there was his son, and he was not leaving until he got him back. 

Suddenly, all he could think about was having Alexander in his arms again; where he was safe, checking on him to make sure he hadn’t been hurt. A lecture on how breathtakingly _stupid_ his decision to run away had been could wait until the boy was home where he belonged.

He exited the carriage with nothing more than his pistol on his belt, and told his valet William to remain with the horses while he went to retrieve Alexander; if anyone asked he was to tell them his master was running a quick errand, and would be back shortly. 

Washington knew he couldn't simply walk up and demand for his son's return, he had to be subtle about this. Walking up the gangway, he ducked behind a tall stack of crates and peered around the corner of it, surprised to find that there didn't appear to be a full staff on board but rather a skeleton crew; he could count all of three men, and they were gathered in a circle, talking to each other while they smoked. He waited. 

“I’m telling you, Johnson, this job is starting to become more trouble than it’s worth. One of the little brats bit me on the arm the other day, I think I might’ve caught something!” One of the heavier set and muscular fellows complained. 

Another Northern male, this one tall and lean, scoffed, “You think that’s bad? I actually have to _hear_ what’s going on in there! It’s enough to make my stomach turn. No good talking to the Cap about it though, he just goes off about how _the Greeks_ did it all the time and how _society_ is the problem!” The third man made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat, “Fuckin’ sick bastard. I swear as soon as I’ve got the money to support my dear Anneliese, I’m getting as far away from Virginia Colony as possible. Bunch’a degenerate freaks. This ain’t the right place to raise a family.” 

Eventually one of them, the tall and thin second man, split off from his group following his break, and he followed him towards the front of the ship, sneaking up behind the clueless fellow, and covered his mouth with one hand while his arm locked around the neck of the man, who couldn't have been older than twenty or so. He tightened his grip even as his arms were pounded with fists in a panic, waited until his target had been rendered unconscious, and tucked him in a corner where he hopefully wouldn't be spotted for some time, taking his set of keys with him. 

If this particular ship was dealing with the selling of people, there was only one place they could have had Alexander.

He made his way passed a row of cannons, and soon found himself at a staircase leading to the cargo hold; glancing around quickly to ensure no one had seen him, he carefully slipped downwards to the thick wooden door, sifting through the keys until he found the one that best matched the shape of the lock, and thrust it in with a twist. Thankful for the fact it was a particularly windy night, no one appeared to hear the ominous creaking as he opened the door a sliver and pushed his way in.

It was pitch black inside, of course; he could hear frightened whispers and clinking metal. 

Fumbling to reach into his coat and pull out a packet of matches, he held the lit stick between his fingers and looked around, barely able to suppress his own horror. 

Children of all ages, maybe as young as three or four, were packed tightly into the hull, chained to anchor points built into the floor. Most of them were European or Mulatto, but there was a substantial number of African, Indian and Asian (possibly Filipino) children as well. Some of them were nearly naked and shivering, others looked like they hadn't eaten in days. The scent of sickness and human waste was thick in the air. The closest ones to him cringed away from the meager source of light as though it physically hurt them to look at, while a few stared with open defiance and hatred. Most of them, however, simply looked afraid. 

George had _seen_ slaves in poor condition before, of course, but this? This was a different level of mistreatment entirely... He saw a little girl who looked quite similar to Patsy, right down to the exact style of nightgown she wore at that age, and had to swallow down the bile that rise in his throat. _All of them... they’re just babies..._

Children did not make good workers, that was well known. Without a family to accompany and care for them, he doubted most of them would survive the weeks long voyage to the Indies.

There was a _terrible_ feeling in his chest, hairs standing on the back of his neck the longer he remained in the hold. _Why are they **all** children? It doesn’t make sense..._ Perhaps they made easier targets for capture but plantation owners, ones who treated their laborers halfway decent, would not willingly purchase children without at least one parent among them because they simply couldn’t handle the physically intense work. Buying a weak and scared child absent of a guardian meant a poor investment, they couldn’t survive hard labor. 

He hated that he knew this to be true because of the inherent ugliness of the trade, but he was trying to understand. What was the purpose of selling only children?

His heart pushed up to his throat, Washington began walking deeper into the hold, examining the dirty, bruised and haunted faces of children even younger than his and Martha’s were, trying to identify his own among them. 

"Alex?" He whispered as loudly as he dared, not missing the flinch some of them gave. "Alex, are you in here, son?" 

He waited, but things had become dead silent, as if the prisoners were terrified to even _breathe_ too loudly near him.

Someone spoke suddenly, but it wasn't his boy. 

"You're looking for Alexander?" 

George turned around so quickly that his match nearly went out, and he saw an older boy watching him intently. He knelt a few feet away from him, the light allowing him a closer look. He was about fifteen years old, with overgrown dirty blond hair and turquoise eyes that were red-rimmed from crying; his expression wasn't afraid though. Closer to angry and worried. "Yes, I am. My name is George, Alexander is my son, and I’ve come to take him home." He explained, his voice quiet but urgent. "Do you know where he is?" 

"Phineas took him..." The boy replied, and he didn't miss the cracking of his voice. "I told him to keep quiet and still so that he wouldn't be noticed, but he... they took him anyway, to the Captain's quarters... I couldn't stop them." His shoulders started to shake. _Trying not to cry_ , Washington realized, his stomach sinking. 

"Thank you, son. What's your name?"

He shook his head, "Doesn't matter who I am. Please, go get Alexander, get him away from this place! Before it’s too late!” 

_Before what’s too late?_ He wanted to ask, but as he opened his mouth to reply, Washington heard the door suddenly shove open and blew out the match quickly, engulfing the room in darkness once more. 

"What the hell is going on in here?" A cold voice snapped as the heavy weight of boots stormed into the cargo hold. He waited for the man to get close enough before lunging, both arms curling around the trafficker's throat, putting pressure on it until he dropped to the ground. 

George moved for the exit, hesitated for a moment as he looked back at the children, than continued on.

Something had to be done, but he couldn't attempt anything until he knew his boy was safe. 

It didn't take him long to find the Captain's quarters.

There was usually a private hatch that led to them near the back of the ship, on the main level, and he indeed found it, somehow without running into the final crew member he’d seen earlier on the boat, the only one besides the Captain he hadn’t knocked out yet. He kept thinking about the petrified concern in that boy's eyes, like he knew some awful secret; the man could only pray that he wasn’t too late to rescue his child. Traffickers were known to kill unruly slaves if they proved to be more trouble than they were worth...

His son was fiercely intelligent, so there was a good chance he could talk his way out of being harmed and negotiate for his safety; however, Alexander _also_ had a temper that rivaled Washington's own when he was angry, and that could be dangerous.

George heard a muffled shout all of a sudden and froze at the sounds of a struggle coming from the cabin.

Crying and sobbing. 

_"—Please!"_

He would know his son's voice in his sleep; the terrified cry sent every parental instinct ingrained within him on alert.

_Alexander!_

George grabbed the keys, flipping through them in a frenzy as the sound of his son screaming sent adrenaline pumping through every vein in his body. Eventually he found it, or thought he did, and struggled to open the lock. No good. His stomach churning with fear, the man took a few steps back and threw himself at the wooden door with all his might, feeling the poorly constructed material give away; it exploded off of its hinges as pain racked up through his shoulder. 

The sight that greeted him made his blood run cold and stopped him dead in his tracks, speechless and frozen in shock, his brain unable to comprehend what he was seeing at first.

His Alexander, his _little boy_ , was struggling and pleading with the man on top of him that he could only assume to be Captain of the vessel. His face was bruised and tear-stained, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek as he fought to get away with all his might; a pointless endeavor, because his son was shackled at the wrists and the ankles, laying bent over and pinned to a table in a jackknifed position, with the man gripping the arm chain far above his head, making it impossible to fight back. The worst part of it all was that the thirteen-year-old's clothes were _torn_ , his breeches tangled around his legs, while the sick, _repulsive_ creature loomed over him with a cruel, predatory grin on his lips. 

_Jesus Christ._

His paralyzed horror suddenly melted into a raw, burning _fury_ as everything fell into place, and painted a perfectly clear, unspeakable conclusion, but the only one that made sense. The reason the victims were all children, the crew members earlier disgust involving the Captain, the blond boy’s terror and insistence that he get his child away from the ship without delay, and the gut-wrenching _wrongness_ he’d felt rising in him since the moment he stepped aboard the vessel.

These children were never intended to be sold as _physical_ laborers. 

Within the time that it took to break down the door and process what was actually going on, the enraged father had launched himself across the room, tearing the vile excuse for a human being off of his boy and slamming him against the wall hard enough some of the assorted variety of trinkets fell onto the floor as the man yelped, his murderous anger reaching a boiling point within the former Colonel's gut as he realized the man's trousers were _open_ , and his manhood exposed.

_Oh my God, Alex._

He was going to be sick.

"Just who in the _hell_ do you think y—" A curled right fist slammed into the bastard's jaw before he could finish his question, sending him flying into a nearby cellarette, and George stalked after him, catching him by the front of his shirt and delivering blow after painful blow to him, feeling his own knuckles split under the force of his hits, until he was a heap on the floor, barely conscious, possibly barely _breathing_. Every part of him was seething, and he felt more furious than he ever had in his entire life. How _dare_ he? This pathetic, utterly repugnant _filth_ had intentionally hurt a child, hurt _his child_. He had beaten him, terrorized him, and _violated_ him, and who knew how many others. 

The sound of Alexander screaming, _begging_ for mercy, would be seared into his memory for the rest of his existence, alongside the horrifying image of his barely pubescent son _bent over a table_.

There was a good chance that George would have kept going regardless and beaten the monster to death with his bare hands, as the parent and the soldier in him were both baying for blood, the blood of the disgusting son of a bitch who _dared_ put his hands on Washington's offspring. He had half a mind to _relieve_ the Captain of a specific part of his anatomy and toss it overboard.

But then a weak, devastating whimper caught his attention.

George spun around just in time to catch sight of his beloved son sinking to the floor of the cabin, shaking like a leaf from head to toe and struggling to pull his breeches back up over his hips, his shirt and waistcoat hanging open in shreds, the task made more difficult due to how bad the tremors in his hands were and the way his chest was heaving between hysterical sobs. His breathing was coming out in quick, terrified gasps, and the blood on his face was mingling with tears; there were vivid red bruises beginning to blossom all across his fair skin. His expression was... beyond words.

_Oh, my dear baby boy._

Unthinkingly, he moved towards the boy and touched his shoulder, just wanting to reassure him that he was safe now.

Alexander cried out wordlessly and, accidentally banging his arm hard against the leg of the mapping table, the teenage boy scrambled backwards in a blind panic until his back hit the corner where two walls met, his eyes wide and frightened, the pupils dilated to the point that slivers of dark violet were all that remained of his irises. The boy was shaking so terribly his chains rattled. He looked absolutely _petrified_. 

“No, no, no...!” His son buried his face in his knees and trembled in fear, terrible ragged noises leaving his small form. "No more, please! I don't—I don't _want_ it!" 

His heart just about shattered at the sight of him in such a state, and his desperate pleading.

Struggling to contain his own barrel of emotions, Washington dropped to one knee a few feet from the boy, careful not to startle him further, "Alexander? Alex? Can you... hear me?" 

No response. 

"Son, it's just me, love. Please, look at me," He whispered, yearning for nothing more than to pull him into his arms and never let go; but he couldn't do that to the boy, not after what he had already been through. Alexander's head lifted a fraction, indicating he could hear him, but he still wouldn't move from the security of his corner. "You're safe now, it's okay, Alex, he can't hurt you anymore. He’ll never lay his hands on you again, I swear. I won't let him." He vowed, watching as the young boy's rapid breathing began to slow down marginally. It was a wonder he had not yet lost consciousness with his injuries and the trauma he had experienced. "That's it. Come back to me, Alexander, my dearest heart, I'm right here. It's okay now, look at me..." he kept his voice soft and gentle, hoping to soothe rather than further frighten the poor child.

It seemed to work.

Blinking wildly, his boy glanced back and forth, at him and then at the creature laying, now unconscious on the floor, and down at himself. The comprehension was beginning to slowly dawn on him, because his head snapped back towards George, and he finally really _looked_ at him, realizing who it actually was. "...P-Papa?" he whispered in disbelief, as if barely daring to hope that this nightmare was really over, his voice cracking and fresh tears welling up in his son's eyes.

George felt his own eyes mist over, " _Alex,_ " he breathed in return, relieved that the teenager had come out of it.

Alexander scrambled out of the corner and all but threw himself at his father, collapsing against him and sobbing into his chest, "P-Pa... He... h-he tried to—" he couldn’t finish, crying inconsolably.

"Shhh, I know, I _know_. You're safe now." George held him tighter, thanking God over and over that his son had said _tried_. The phrasing meant he hopefully wasn't too late, and that his boy was spared the even more horrific experience of having actually been _raped_.

Rape.

Just _thinking_ the word made his blood roar in his ears, the desire for vengeance coiling in the pit of his stomach, it was forging something dark and violent that bubbled just beneath the surface. Now was _not_ the time for it, though. Those feelings could wait until he was alone, somewhere that he wouldn't scare his child more than he already was. "I know you've been through a terrible ordeal, but what matters right now is getting you home." He whispered, running his fingers through the child's hair before reluctantly pulling away. 

He reached for the set of keys he had dropped in his attack on the assailant, and taking Alexander gently by the wrist, he began trying all of them until he found the match for the chains, quickly freeing his arms and legs (trying very hard to ignore the bruises beginning to blossom) and pulling him to his feet. 

Realizing the upper portions of his son's clothes were clearly beyond salvaging, he shrugged off his coat and helped him into it, buttoning it up all the way to cover Alexander and give him some semblance of his stolen dignity back, beginning to lead the way off of this nightmare of a ship. 

As they were approaching the gangway, Alexander suddenly stopped short, "Wait!" he cried, and George looked at him, alarmed. 

"We can't leave yet! Father, there's others... in the cargo hold. They're hungry and filthy and scared, we have to do something, _please_. I can't... I can't just leave them behind to... to be..." The tears in his boy's eyes this time had nothing to do with his own pain, but his empathy for the dozens of children trapped aboard this hellish vessel, where they had been used and abused for God even knew how long. 

Washington couldn't bring himself to disagree, "Alright. You will wait here, I will go in and—"

"Absolutely not!" He couldn't help but stare as his son, battered in the aftermath of a violent sexual assault attempt, wiped his tears away and marched resolutely towards the cargo doors to help free the children himself. He didn't even want him on the same _continent_ as the men who had done this, let alone on the same boat, but he couldn't help admire just how _resilient_ the boy was. He’d known seasoned veterans with less courage.

As soon as they were inside he began lighting the lanterns that hung on the walls to illuminate the darkness; the one male was still unconscious on the ground, and while Washington hadn't thought he'd choked him out that hard, he couldn't bring himself to feel any particular regret if the man turned out to be dead or grievously injured, not now that he knew exactly what they had been privy to. Their disapproval of what the Captain has been doing meant nothing if they knowingly allowed it to happen.

"Alexander? Oh, thank _God_. I'd thought..." The boy from earlier seemed to sag in relief, before his son dropped down in front of him and reached for the shackles, "—What are you...?"

He just shook his head, "No time to explain; just know we’re getting you out of here! _All_ of you!"

It wasn't long before the children, most of whom were in shackles, had been freed from their bondage. 

They began to lead them down off the ship, John was whispering words of reassurance to the youngest ones, when an arm seized him from the darkness, wrapped around his throat while the barrel of a flintlock pistol was pressed against his skull, causing him to yelp in alarm. 

Alexander and George both turned at the same time and froze at the sight. 

The third man! 

He had completely forgot he'd seen three crew members, besides the Captain, when he first stepped aboard. One was tucked away near the hull and the other unconscious on the cargo floor, but he'd neglected to account for this one. 

The thirteen-year-old made a move towards them but stopped when he saw the gun, and Washington instinctively put out his arm to keep the boy behind him. 

"One more step and he gets a skull full of lead!" He snapped, cocking the pistol, causing both boys to flinch.

Washington held his free hand in compliance, "Easy now. Let the boy go, there's no need for anyone to die here today..." 

"Speak for yourself, Sir!" John choked out, elbowing the man in the stomach so violently he loosened his grip and, without even a moment of hesitation, the blond twisted himself free, grabbed the arm of the gunman and forced it against his gut. The crack of the shot as he pulled the trigger made all the children jump, and the man dropped on the deck instantly, bleeding from his abdomen and gasping in agony. 

The boy let the gun tumble from his fingers and took a few steps back, looking shocked by his own actions, his lack of any sort of qualms about shooting someone. 

"We need to leave, now." George spoke, and it was only the commanding tone of his voice that got everyone moving again. He noticed Alexander clinging to the older teenager as they hurried down the gangway. 

Will was there with the carriage, "Sir, you were taking some time, so I went to find help, officers from the Princess Anne County Militia are on their way now."

"Good. They are going to need some physicians on site as well, the prisoners are in poor condition..." Washington felt his lip curl with disgust. Kidnappers, traffickers and child rapists. Those men were nothing but worthless parasites. _Maybe, but can you say you're really any better just because you don't use chains?_ A voice that sounded suspiciously like Viktor taunted in the back of his mind. _What good is a home when you're a prisoner in it? Don't pretend to be a man of piety_. 

Forcefully pushing those thoughts aside for the time being, he waited with his son for help to arrive,

Upon explaining the situation and providing his address to the local authority in case they had further questions, he turned to his son, who had his father's coat wrapped around him and was staring out at the Potomac with a blank expression. "Come on, dear boy, let's get you home, okay?"

Alexander turned to him, "Pa, wait, can..." His eyes flickered to something passed George's shoulder. "Can John come with us, please?" He asked, grasping his hand and staring up at him pleadingly. 

"John? Is that the older boy you were acquainted with?" 

His son nodded, "He... I don't know if he has anywhere to go _back_ to, Papa, and when... I was taken from the hold, he tried to protect me. He was _hurt_ for trying to stop them from taking me. He knew what was going to happen and begged to be taken in my place. He was going to let him do _that_ so it wouldn’t happen to me ... I can't let him wind up on the streets. Please?" 

George scanned the group of children and found the blond-haired boy standing a distance away with his arms wrapped around himself, shivering, but there was a relieved smile on his face as he watched the sheriffs began escorting the rescued captives into carriages. Sooner or later, those who had been taken from their parents would be reunited with them, and those that weren't would hopefully be taken in to suitable orphanages and cared for. 

_("Doesn't matter who I am."_ The boy had replied when Washington had asked him his name; his face had been puffy from crying when he first spotted him. _"Please, go get Alexander, get him away from this place!")_

A swell of gratitude bubbled up within him; if it hadn't been for that boy buying him time with his interference, then Washington may have arrived too late; he had helped save his son from an experience that very well could have broken him. 

"Very well, but only until we find out where he comes from, and whether or not there are people looking for him, understand?" 

The look of sheer relief on Alexander's face before he hugged George erased any doubts he had, and his boy quickly ran over to John to tell him the news.

He wondered what Martha would say when he brought home _two_ teenage boys instead of one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I normally don't update the very next day, but the words just came to me and I wanted George to know his son was going to be okay. Next up, the aftermath/coping, Alex and John forming a tight-knit bond, and Alexander contemplating his future! Enjoy him being a lil baby teen while you can because after the next couple of chapters we're probably going to dive headfirst into the war.


	12. Long Ride Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where everyone cries at least once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for Alexander recounting his assault, mentions of the captured children, and references to child abuse/neglect, as well as panic attacks.
> 
> Also if there's a ton of run on sentences or mistakes in this chapter please don't bite my head off, it's 4:10 in the morning and I always go back and read/edit my work once I've slept to fix any issues I spot. Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

_September, 1770_

The initial ride back to Fairfax County was a quiet one, not that George had really expected any less.

Alexander was sitting between his father and his new friend, occasionally drifting off just from sheer exhaustion. He hadn't done much the past day in the physical sense, but emotionally it was all very taxing, and so with the quiet of the carriage ride broken only by the sound of rain gently pelting the roof, he could be found dozing every once in a while, his head accidentally landing on John's shoulder, until a bump in the road would jostle the teenager and rouse him once more. 

It was a tad unsettling, seeing his boy so quiet, so still, but he understood his son was likely still trying to process everything he had experienced. As for the older lad, that his child had convinced him to bring with them for the time being? He just had his head turned to the side, pale blue eyes staring blankly out the window. 

George tried not to think about the reason they both looked so... _empty_. 

If he gave it more than a passing acknowledgement, he would have William turn the horses around and go back for that—

A sudden flash of light outside followed shortly thereafter by the _crack-bang_ sound of thunder both interrupted his thoughts, and also caused the carriage to suddenly jump a bit in the air and screech to a halt, he could hear the horses panicking and rearing back outside. John had nearly been flung towards the other side of the vehicle and Alexander... oh, dear. His son had gotten still as a statue, his eyes stretched open wide, a white-knuckled grip clutching the fabric lining the seat beneath them.

He had hated storms ever since nearly drowning. 

"Alexander?" Washington touched his shoulder gently, and received no response, "Son?"

Righting himself, John turned, a look of confusion and concerning dominating his features, "Alexander?" he waved a hand in front of his face, which prompted just as much of a reaction from him. Another boom noise made the boy jump nearly a foot into the air, now visibly trembling. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded, his voice raising with a hint of panic.

"It's the storm, he's deathly afraid of them," George replied, attempted to take Alexander's hand in an effort to ground him. He didn't add on that normally his boy didn't just completely phase out like this, that he usually responded after a few seconds, even if he stuttered or shed tears; he'd never seen him just... shut down this way before. Could something else be wrong? 

As if responding to the silent question, Alexander bent his head and began to whisper to him, rocking back and forth, "Seigneur aide-moi, je ne veux pas mourir." 

"French?" John said, eyebrows knitting together, understanding the words and feeling a knot forming in his stomach. 

They didn't know one another well, but he was worried about Alexander.

Patting his son lightly on the cheek, trying to get him to snap out of it before his state worsened, George told him, "He's fluent in it, yes. His nanny Sophia has been teaching it to him from the time he was a baby, he sometimes speaks it when he's distressed..." A fact that frustrated him to no end; he had tried to learn it at Martha's prompting so he could bond with Alex over it, but aside from the numbers he was utterly useless with the language. 

John touched Alexander's shoulder, "You won't die, Alex." He told him, to the man's surprise, and then switched languages in an effort to reach him, "Tu ne mourras pas, Alex. C'est juste une tempête." The blond slipped his arm around his shoulders as he shook, stroked his hair in a way that left George with no doubt that he was an older brother; and that the boys had bonded in their short time together. "Ça va. La tempête passera. Tu vas bien." 

Another flash.

Flinching, Alexander whimpered and buried his face in John's shoulder, crying, "Ses à venir pour moi!" He sobbed, "S'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît, non..."

Looking at Washington for guidance, the older boy pulled the younger against him, holding him close and rubbing a hand up and down his back, "Non, cela vient parce que c'est la nature. Tu es en sécurité, mon ami. Cela ne vous fera pas de mal." He told him gently, and his words appeared to eventually reach Alexander, who closed his eyes and relaxed a bit, though he didn't move away. 

For a while, the only thing that could be heard was the sound of raindrops splattering against the roof of the carriage; Alexander's breathing had slowed down and it looked almost like the boy was going to doze off. 

Of course, that was when a particularly bright flash lit up the sky nearby, followed soon after by a near deafening _boom_ that actually shook the ground.

Alexander _screamed_.

He suddenly jerked away from John, lunging out of his seat and struggling to get the door of the carriage opened, his eyes wide and unseeing with panic. 

George reached out and grabbed his son by the arms, pulling him back down even as he yelled and thrashed like a wild animal, "Alex, stop! You can't go outside in this, you'll catch your death! _Alex!_ " He wasn't listening, the familiar circumstances to the time he had drowned had set off something desperate in the boy to escape, an instinctive need to get away from it. Thinking of Sophia, and of the other boy seated next to him, he pulled the thirteen-year-old into his lap, trying to get his child to look at him. " _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf,_ _dix_." He murmured. 

It was the only French he knew, but the language in general seemed to soothe him. 

Alex blinked at him, his heart was racing so fast that the man could almost _hear_ the way it pounded against his rib-cage. 

The childish look of wide-eyed fear on his face made his heart ache for his son.

"Count with me, Alexander." He urged gently, and began again, with his boy hesitantly joining in after the first three notes, " _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf,_ _dix._ Good, that's good. _Dix, neuf, huit, sept, six, cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un_." By the time they'd gotten back down to one, he had stopped struggling to get away, and was blinking the tears from his eyes, dragging in shaky but consistent breaths. 

His son slumped against George, head coming to rest on his shoulder, and the man could faintly catch him mumbling something very quietly under his breath, and strained to hear him. "Désolé, Papa... Je suis désolé..." 

Washington could at least understand _that_.

"No, Alexander, don't apologize." He kissed the exhausted child's temple, "Never for this, son. Sleep, please, you will be safe at home soon, I promise."

* * *

His boy did end up falling back asleep, although not restfully.

Not that it could be helped; carriage rides could be rough at times, and the rain had not made the trip any smoother by mucking the dirt up; at one pointed John had (somewhat gleefully) jumped out, volunteering to help William push the wagon out of a patch of mud that the back wheel had gotten caught in. George suspected it had less to do with his desire to assist and more that he was no doubt feeling suffocated in the somewhat limited space. 

After seeing where he had been _living_ for God knew how long, he couldn't bring himself to blame the young lad.

Eventually, about halfway through their trip back to Mount Vernon, they had to stop to use the necessities and get something to eat, Alexander was unenthused by the idea, but Washington still made him join them at the nearest coffeehouse; he likely hadn't had any food put in him since he had left yesterday morning before dawn, nearly 28 hours ago. It was probable _that_ was a contributing factor in his difficulty staying awake.

Despite not being more than a handful of hours from home, it was rather easy to remain unnoticed by the other patrons; what few of them that were there still at mid-morning were deeply engrossed in their own personal business, thankfully. Word would most likely get out eventually about George's involvement in the raid on the slave ship, but if he could spare the children from having to face everyone knowing what they went through, he would. 

He had Alexander and John wait in a booth near the front while he ordered; his son had merely hummed tiredly in agreement, while his new friend had protested that he wasn't hungry. One look at him told him what utter nonsense that was; the teenager was _emaciated_. He purchased four servings of beef barley soup with roasted vegetables, along with coffee for himself and William, and some apple cider for the boys to help warm them up. 

By the time he arrived at their table, John had taken to entertaining himself by folding the cloth napkins that had been stacked neatly into what appeared to be swans; his son, meanwhile, was sitting next to him with his head on the older boy's shoulder. 

"Alexander." 

He groaned and opened his eyes, "I'm awake..." he said, sounding none too happy about that fact. 

George's mouth twitched in amusement as he took the seat across from them.

Unsurprisingly, once he had told them that, in no uncertain terms, yes, they needed to eat, the bowls were practically licked clean. 

Frowning into his cider, Alexander abruptly looked at him, "Father, may I...?" He rubbed his eyes and pointed at the cup of coffee sitting in front of the man. Normally he would have lightly scolded him for doing something so childish as _pointing_ , but in light of recent circumstances he could understand why his son was feeling out of sorts, so he let it slide.

Pushing the cup of coffee across the table, he watched as his son blew on the hot beverage, sipped it, grimaced at the strong flavour, and then took another, stubbornly forcing himself to drink something he obviously disliked. Some things never changed.

Once their basic needs were taken care of, they climbed back into the carriage for the remaining seven hour ride back. 

* * *

Martha, Patsy and Jacky were waiting for them when they arrived. 

He immediately went to his wife and took her hand, intending to beg her forgiveness for running off without so much as a word of warning, but she was looking passed him, her eyes on his— _their_ son. Sometimes his deep devotion to Alexander made it slip his mind that she had raised him for over a decade alongside George, and he knew that was a poor excuse, since she never addressed the others as anything but their children.

Patsy all but launched herself at Alex, hugging him tightly and ignoring his mumbled, _"Sister, you shouldn't be outside in this weather, your health..."_

The last to step out of the carriage, John looked awkwardly at the family in the midst of reuniting, and cast his glance away. 

"Oh, and who is this?" Martha asked, her voice gentle but full of curiosity. 

George kissed the back of her hand before letting it go, "A long story, I promise you that I will explain everything..." he took note of Alexander's eyes on him, and said, "...later. For now, we need to prepare one of the guest rooms, my love. I think they both could use some proper rest." He hugged Patsy, and returned his gaze to the four children in time to see their boy introducing his brother to his newfound friend. 

"John, meet John." Alexander said to Jacky calmly before he suddenly covered his mouth to mask his giggling snort. 

He would have been concerned, if it hadn't been obvious by taking a look at the thirteen-year-old that he was completely dead on his feet and not retaining all of his senses in that moment. 

"A guest? I'll have one of the extra chairs brought into the dining room, in that case." Martha offered the boy a smile. 

It didn't go unnoticed that the blond haired youth was avoiding making eye contact with anyone. 

* * *

His daughter was happy to have a guest; she took to immediately offering to show John around, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him along as the boy turned bright red and stammered awkwardly while trying to keep up with her pace.

Meanwhile, he took Alexander to his room while he cleaned himself up, needing to broach a topic with him that would surely be upsetting.

So, that was how he ended up sitting in the old rocking chair near Alex's bed, in which he had many years ago comforted the restless child and given him his name. "Alexander, son, we need to talk." He began, while the boy stood in front of the shaving desk that he didn't need but had begged for one of his own at the age of twelve when watching his father use his. He’d already changed into his sleepwear, and seemed to stand taller now that he was properly dressed, though he was still unusually quiet. He kept touching his hair though, pulling at it and frowning; “...too long...” he muttered under his breath before switching to French, which George of course didn’t understand. “ _...il a tiré si fort, mon cuir chevelu me fait mal..._ ” 

To his knowledge the length of the boy’s hair had never bothered him before, in fact he often took great pride in cleaning and brushing it (the child could be rather vain at times); Martha had always kept it neat and healthy, and it never reached more than halfway to his shoulders, Alexander used to throw tantrums when he was small about even slight trims however, he said that his hair looked pretty when it was long. Wanting to cut it was out of character. 

For now, he chose not to question it. 

The shaving desk was convenient, at least, for the porcelain bowl that sat in it had been filled with hot water, and his teenage son was now attempting to wash away the dirt from his face and arms, scrubbing at them roughly with a washcloth until his skin was beginning to turn an angry shade of red. 

No, not dirt, they were _bruises_. 

Faint purple and blueish spots had begun to blossom across his skin, they were shaped unmistakably like fingerprints which wrapped around both of his son's wrists and one of his upper arms; and there were equally repulsive markings that certainly weren't from someone's _hands_ that dotted along the boy's _neck_ and up under his ear. Rage swelled up in him all over again as he imagined that _filth_ putting his disgusting mouth on his boy, only second to the absolute _nausea_ he was feeling.

His boy was still scouring his wrists and arms which were beginning to look raw and irritated, as though he thought that he might be able to wash off what had happened to them by removing the evidence; but only time could heal him (physically when it came to the bruises, but also mentally he imagined). If he kept this up he was going to end up hurting himself from the vigorous scrubbing. 

"Alexander?" 

His son jerked around suddenly, as if he’d forgetter that his father was in the room with him, and snapped, " _What?_ "

Frowning, George leveled him with a stern look at his tone that immediately softened when the young man instantly deflated and broke eye contact. His poor son. "Alex, love, we need to discuss what happened... back on the ship." The running away, too, but that was actually his secondary concern at the moment.

Looking rather pale-faced, Alexander licked his lips and croaked out, "We _really_ don't." He turned back to the desk, even though there was no longer a speck of grime left on him. 

He just didn't want to look at his father.

"Yes, we do." 

The boy hung his head, and set the washcloth down, making his way over to the bed and sitting on the very edge, "Okay, let's talk." He said, with all the confidence he wasn't feeling; his gaze was darting around the room though, trying to avoid making eye contact. 

As he took a moment to mentally prepare himself for this conversation, Washington needed to remind him that his son was safe now, he was home and surrounded by those that loved him, so whatever he was told... it didn't change anything. He would still love him just as much, even after running away... even after doing whatever he possibly had to in order to not be killed (he still didn’t know how long Arason had his son and how long he was on the ship, and the thought alone of what else may have been done to him in that time turned his stomach). 

Realizing there was no real way to make whatever his son said okay, he exhaled, "Alex, I need you to explain to me exactly what happened in the Captain’s quarters... before I showed up." 

Alexander blanched, his eyes wide and shocked, "You mean you want me to _tell you_ about it?!"

There was no denying the horrified look on his face, nor the obvious discomfort that the boy was feeling. Not surprising; his son was intelligent enough and old enough to understand what that man was doing, so he knew it was wrong and was likely feeling all the emotion associated with having been rendered helpless in a situation so horrific.

So young and he’d already been through so much... when did it end?

"Unfortunately, I do." 

His child crossed his arms, "But... _why?_ I don’t _want_ to talk about it. I just want to forget that it ever happened.”

The frightened look in Alexander's eyes, and the way his bottom lip quivered when he spoke, made him want to take it back, to just let his boy dismiss the whole thing and move on, but as much as they might both _wish it_ , pretending it hadn't happened would not make it so... and he _needed_ to know. "Medical reasons, for the most part, I need to know what happened so we can determine whether you require a physician." he began, trying to keep his voice soft, both of them wincing at the thought of bringing another doctor into their house after Viktor. "But mostly for my own peace of mind as well; I can’t... help you if I don’t know what happened. I know you don’t want to think about it, son, but please try."

Blinking hard, Alexander took a deep breath and fixed his gaze onto the yellow rose pattern that decorated his bedspread, trying to find the words, "The, um, guard, I guess he was, dragged me to the Captain's quarters and locked me in the room, and shortly after that, the man... Leonard Chambers, he said his name was... he came in and started talking to me. Asked me my name and offered me a drink. I told him no!" He added quickly when he saw the look on his father's face. "He noticed the cut on my cheek, I-I think I got it when the other man dragged me out of the room and I tripped and fell. Anyways, he pulled out a handkerchief when I accidentally made it start bleeding again and I began thinking about ways I could bargain my way out when.. when he k-kissed me..." he winced. 

"I pushed him away and I suppose he was inebriated because he staggered and I guess that's what made him angry? He hit me in the face," there was a pause as the boy reached up to touch the pale purple bruise that had begun to appear on his left cheekbone. "I tried to get away from him, but with the cuffs I just fell. He grabbed me from behind and... and he shoved me against the atlas table." 

The tears that had formed in the corners of Alexander's eyes made him want to hug his child, but he could immediately tell that such an action would be unwise at the moment; if his son didn't get this out now he would never willingly discuss it again.

"He... I couldn’t really... move and he started kissing my... ear and saying... _things_ to me, and I just froze!" Alexander blurted out, his hands balling into fists in the yellow blanket, "I tried, Father, I swear I tried! I just... my limbs _wouldn't work_ and I couldn't speak or anything. Until he said he wanted to... do _something_ , and so I headbutted him in the nose and I ran to the door but it was l-locked and no one could hear me, or... if they did I guess they just didn't care." He took a shaking breath and, probably less subtly than he would have liked, dragged his arm across his eyes and wiped away the dampness there. "He covered my mouth and dragged me back and I couldn't get away, he threw me down on the table and I—" he cut his own words off with a gasp, his pupils were dilating again and he was beginning to tremble.

Washington stood at once, and immediately dropped to his knees by the bed, just as he used to when the boy would have nightmares as a child. Having learned from back on the boat, he made sure not to touch him just yet. "Alexander, listen to me. It's okay. You’re at home now. Just take a deep breath, son. You're not there, understand? _You're not there._ "

The thirteen-year-old snapped out of it with a sob and the confession was blurted out, his face turning red with shame, unable to maintain the façade of calmness. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Papa! I tried to fight him off, I _really_ did; I just _couldn't!_ He... he put his hands... _somewhere_ and he was biting and kissing me and saying _h-horrible_ things and I... he ripped my waistcoat and shirt and p-pulled my... he undressed me and he was touching me all over. I begged him to stop and he laughed at me!” 

Alexander squirmed with discomfort and hung his head in shame as he recalled the way his own body had betrayed him, first by freezing when he wanted to fight back, and then by responding positively to the man’s unwanted touches. His face was hot and he couldn’t meet his Papa’s eyes when he told him, “He shoved his fingers down my throat and I couldn’t breathe, or scream. I... I couldn’t fight back... and then he put his _finger..._ i-inside and—" the boy covered his mouth with both hands to stop himself from throwing up, tears streaming freely down his cheeks now.

It wasn't enough. George realized as he wrapped his arms around his son, cautiously at first and when he didn’t lash out hugging him tightly, Alexander's words painting the horrifying scene in his mind. That viscous beating that he had given the Captain wasn't enough and it never would be, not for all the pain and terror he'd put his little boy through. He’d never wanted to hurt someone so badly before in his life. 

_God damn it, I should have killed the sick bastard!_

A fierce protective rage settled over him as he buried his face against the auburn strands of Alex's hair, trying to soothe the anger burning through him. "Shhh, _breathe_ , my heart. Easy now." He pulled away, a large hand rubbed up and down the boy's back, his stomach churning at the haunted, broken look in his eyes. "Alexander, I'm so sorry, son, but I have to ask... did he rape you? Because if he did I need to contact a physician for your own health." 

The confirmation that he hadn't when the teenager shook his head provided him no solace this time; not when he could see plainly that what Alexander had been through was just as damaging to him as if he had.

"N-No... he didn't get t-that far... but I-I thought... I thought he would... He was about to..." Alexander whispered in a quavery voice. 

Instead of replying, George simply crushed the boy gently against his chest as he broke down all over again and fell apart in his father’s arms.

* * *

Jacky was kind enough to loan John some of his clothing, since they were the same age and close in size, aside from the fact that the latter was undernourished and rather gangly as a result. They were originally going to have him sleep in the guest room on the main floor, but Alexander had quickly spoke up and suggested he be placed in the remaining unoccupied bedroom upstairs in the far left corner of the floor. 

Clearly, his son had become attached to the other boy, and the care seemed to be reciprocated by him in return. 

After sending the two off to get cleaned up and go to sleep, despite it being only four in the afternoon, George met with his wife in the office, doors locked, and told her everything. 

He had never before lied to Martha and he didn't intend to start now.

The obvious signs that her husband had been crying wouldn't have helped him in masquerading the truth, anyhow. 

She was, of course, properly horrified by what was revealed, though George didn't go quite as in depth as Alexander had; she didn't need that image branded into the back of her mind for the rest of her life like it now was with him.

It wasn't until he mentioned the entire ship of children trussed up in the hold, presumably to be used for the same depraved purpose the Captain had been using Alexander - at least until he could sell them - that Martha started to cry too, though. 

He held her just as he had their son, and reassured her that with the severity of the crimes they'd committed the men would most likely be hanged. 

"...a-and what about that boy who tried to save our Alexander, George? Where will he end up? Where is he from?" She asked, wiping at her eyes as she did her best to compose herself. "What will become of him?

"Somewhere in South Carolina, if his accent is anything to go by. I haven't had the chance to ask him about his family; for all I know he's an orphan, or was sold by or taken from them. Once they've had a few days to calm down from what happened I'll find out if there are people we should be attempting to get in touch with, but for now I think it would be best if he remained with us. For his and Alexander's peace of mind, they were nearly inseparable on the trip back, Martha."

His wife sniffled and then put on the brave face he knew so well, "Then I suppose we had best to what we can to make him feel safe and welcome, my dear." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The (probably very inaccurate) French is courtesy of Google Translate, I've put the translations below in case you didn't feel like checking it yourself: 
> 
> Alex's:  
> "Seigneur aide-moi, je ne veux pas mourir." = "Lord help me, I don't want to die."  
> "Ses à venir pour moi!" = "It's coming for me!"  
> "S'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît, non..." = "Please, please, no..."  
> "Je suis désolé." = "I'm sorry."
> 
> John's:  
> "Tu ne mourras pas, Alex. C'est juste une tempête." = "You won't die, Alex. It's just a storm."  
> "Ça va. La tempête passera. Tu vas bien." = "It's okay. The storm will pass. You're fine."  
> "Non, cela vient parce que c'est la nature. Tu es en sécurité, mon ami. Cela ne vous fera pas de mal." = "No, it's coming because it's nature. You're safe, my friend. It won't hurt you."


	13. Call Of The Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short conversation between Alex and John about slavery; George realizes who John is; and Alex has another strange dream.

_September, 1770_

_This_ , Alexander thought as he stood barefoot on the jagged outcropping of rock that jutted out from the sea, _is a dream_.

He knew it had to be one, because not only was there nothing familiar about any of his surroundings, but he was entirely alone, something he knew his father would never allow so soon after... _that_ had happened. But, what gave it away definitively, was the fact that he was standing on a rock in the middle of the ocean, no land or boat in sight, or any clear explanation for how he had gotten here in the first place. Yeah, it didn't get much more unrealistic than this. 

It still _felt_ plenty real, though.

He blinked as the salty wet ocean air sprayed against his face, and looked down at himself; he was wearing his bed clothes even though it was apparently the middle of the day, another telltale sign he was not actually awake. His feet were bare but despite the rough stone that dug into the boy's feet, he felt no discomfort.

No, for some inexplicable reason, the teenager was filled with _joy_.

As he mused over what he was supposed to do now, with nowhere to go and no one to keep him company, his keen ears picked up on a sound. _Singing_. A beautiful soprano melody that sounded as if it was being carried to him by the waves, _somehow_. It was hauntingly familiar to him, yet he could not place where he knew it from. As he turned towards the source, he realized to his astonishment that where there had been previously nothing but a perfect sapphire sea for thousands of miles, now was at least a dozen or more rocks shooting out of the water like small platforms... leading to an island, which had not been there previously.

The thirteen-year-old pondered his options for a moment, and then did what any boy his age would probably have done in this scenario.

He began to jump from one to the next, his arms thrown out to aid in his balance as he hopped precariously along the pathway to the mysterious island, until he finally reached the last one, jumping off into the knee-deep water, which soaked the edges of his nightgown. He could hear the singing much more clearly now and, as he paused to concentrate on the voice, found that he could even make out the words from here. 

_ “Ο θησαυρός μου στη θάλασσα,  
Αγάπη μου, έλα οίκος σε μένα...  
Ακου την καρδιά σου,  
Τραγουδήστε το τραγούδι του η θάλασσα...” _

Finding himself inexplicably compelled to discover the owner of the breathtaking lullaby, Alexander ran to the shore of the lush island, his feet getting stuck in the sparkly white sand several times as a result. 

Soon enough, he found himself at the beginning of a forest, and hesitated, not wanting to get lost. The music called to him though, and he answered of his own volition, his curiosity pushing him forward; the voice seemed to guide him in the correct direction, listening to the sweet Greek poetry spilling from unknown lips in a way that was as comforting as it was sorrowful. It was sang in a dialect far more ancient than any he had been tutored in, but for some reason he could still understand it enough to translate. 

Who was this? Why were they _calling_ for him...? But, more importantly, why did he want so desperately to be able to _answer?_

_ “Νιώστε τον άνεμο και το νερό, τόσο δωρεάν,  
Μια σιωπηρή μελωδία τηςέκσταση  
Βυθιστείτε στη χαρά και στον πόνο,  
στις δυνάμεις της βροντής και της βροχής.” _

Finally, he reached the edge of a clearing where a glistering freshwater lake sat, surrounded by the privacy of the trees, and a stunning waterfall that caught rainbows from the overhead sun, reflecting the colors across the water. 

That... that didn't make any _sense_ —where was the waterfall even _coming_ from?

Alexander craned his head back to look up, but could see no source, no mountains or cliffs of any kind looming above. It was as if the water was simply pouring from the Heavens themselves. 

Everything felt surreal.

_It's a dream, you idiot_ , he chastised himself, _since when do dreams need to make sense?_

He was pulled from his thoughts as the singing abruptly trailed to an end and he looked up to see a woman he hadn't noticed before, sitting at the edge of the lake, able to just make out her features from the way her body was tilted to the side, her legs kicking back and forth in the water. She was a beautiful lady; young, lovely, with a face that he was sure most gentleman of all ages would trip over themselves for the privilege to court. Alexander however, had no such desire. He was simply curious about her. about this whole place, even.

The woman wore a short-sleeved white dress of some sort, a _chiton_ , he believed it was called. It was in somewhat ragged condition, as if the wearer didn't care much for it. Or perhaps she just disliked wearing dresses. Aside from her odd clothing choice, she had an equally strange hair style, her long black tresses were braided into a thick rope that hung down her back, the crown of her head was adorned with a band of coral branches and seashells, giving her an almost otherworldly yet regal-looking appearance. 

" _Alexander, my dearest..._ " She still didn't look at him as she spoke, continuing to splash her legs through the water with a dreamy sort of sigh. 

In direct polarity with his own better judgement, the boy moved towards her, taking a seat a few feet from her side, unsure what to do. It was warm and almost pleasant, he noticed as his feet touched the water, knowing it wasn't real but not seeing any obvious reason why he hadn't woken up yet. Perhaps his mind had something it needed to tell him. 

A hand suddenly touched his cheek and his eyelids fluttered open, nearly gasping in shock at the sight he was met with. 

Kind, violet eyes looked into his own nearly identical ones. 

* * *

He jerked awake early that morning and looked around wildly. 

The boy placed his hand over the pounding sensation in his chest, trying to will his heart to slow down. 

How many more months was he to be plagued by these nonsensical dreams? He had more important things to worry about than a non-existent island woman, but they'd been happening in some capacity for months now, even before he had run off to meet up with Viktor and wound up... No, no, _absolutely_ not, he was _not_ going to think about that. Instead, knowing it wouldn't be long before he was called for breakfast, Alexander forced down his uneasy boulder-in-the-pit-of-your-stomach sort of feeling. 

Cleaning himself up and tying his hair back after getting dressed, the young man headed downstairs to greet the rest of his family.

He could feel his mother's and father's eyes on him and chose to ignore it, plastering a smile on his lips as he said good morning to Jacky and kissed his sister on the cheek before taking his seat.

Shortly after he arrived, they heard more footsteps, and then his new friend John walked in, and Alexander _stared_.

The older boy had cleaned himself up extremely well, no longer caked in grime from head to toe. Dark golden strands of hair were restrained neatly at the nape of his neck, his celestial eyes — light blue but flecked with rings of greenish-gold around the pupils — quite pleasing to look at, and he was dressed like a proper young gentleman; the deep red shade he wore flattering despite his thinness. He looked... _he looked like..._

Alexander heard a quiet inhale that caught his attention before he could finish that thought, and directed his gaze towards his parents; just as his mother turned to whisper something in her husband's ear. They both looked stunned. 

_What is it_ , he wanted to ask, _what's wrong?_

But then John looked at him and _smiled_ and he completely forgot what he wanted to say. 

"Good morning, Alexander." 

"I.. ah... uh-huh..." Or something equally intelligent came out of his mouth in reply. 

At least he wasn't the only one; Patsy's cheeks had gone pink and she was suddenly sitting a lot more ladylike, removing her elbows from the table, which annoyed him for a moment until the blond sat down and he found himself beaming in spite of the troubling dream he'd had last night and how emotionally drained he still felt. "You clean up nicely, John." he couldn't help but note. 

John looked down at himself and laughed, "Well, I guess that's what a bath for the first time in three months will do for you!"

His stomach rolled upon hearing the reminder of why John was with them in the first place, and why he had been in such terrible shape when they had met. Alexander couldn't imagine being trapped in that... that _place_ for three months; just thinking about it was enough that he could feel himself edging towards the brink of panic; so he stabbed his eggs with his fork and hummed in agreement as he shoved them into his mouth. 

_ You're fine. You're not there. Calm down. Don't be a child. Everything's okay. Keep breathing, in and out, in and out. Don't think about it. _

"When we're done eating, why don't I take you on a more thorough walk along the estate?" he suggested between bites, barely tasting the food. 

His friend's mouth dimpled with his next smile, and the sight of it loosened the ball of dread that had been knotting in the center of his stomach, "That sounds wonderful."

* * *

_John Laurens_.

The boy they had taken in was Henry Laurens' eldest _son_ , and Washington had been completely oblivious to it until that morning. 

Granted, the child was painfully slim, and had been covered in dirt and tattered rags when he had first laid eyes on him, so that wasn't really a surprise, anyone who'd been in the condition those children had been forced in would have been unrecognizable to a solid majority of people. He knew Henry Laurens, had known the merchant and rice planter for many years now. As a matter of fact, he had held all but one of his young children at some point or another when visiting South Carolina, John included. He hadn't even known that the boy was missing, Henry and Eleanor never said a word about it in any of their correspondences at the beginning of the year. True, he didn't know when John had been taken, but surely if it had been since Eleanor's passing, Henry would have mentioned it? He had spoken of his grief over her death in his last letter. 

That wasn't the only thing that was bothering him, however.

Surely, John knew who Washington was by this point, and was likely more than aware that he was acquainted with his father.

But if that were the case, why had he not said anything?

His family was under the impression the boy had nowhere to go.

It couldn't be that... his _parents_ had put him aboard that God awful ship on purpose, could it? George knew the grim realities of the slave trade; not all of them were born into that life or taken from elsewhere, some families sold or threw away their children, or sent them off to a life of indentured servitude, for one reason or another. It was a dark, terrible truth that a way to remove expensive or insolent children from one's household was to surrender them to the right person. But, Lord, it was so horrible he could barely bring himself to consider it, after seeing it for himself.

What parent could possibly hate their child that much? 

No, he refused to believe Henry would do that; even if he needed to (which he did not, his wealth was considerably larger than Washington's own, after all). His friend was a stubborn and at times unyielding _pain in the ass_ of a man, but he wasn't evil. He loved his family, George knew that, so there had to be another explanation for how John had ended up on a boat full of captured children intended to be sold to sexual degenerates in the West Indies.

He just needed to get to the bottom of this.

* * *

Following breakfast, Alexander took John to the gardens, showing him the many different plants being cultivated there, many of them for nutritional purposes, but some of them had additional or even primarily medicinal properties, he had requested his tutor tell him more about them but since that wasn't part of the traditional studies, he hadn't known, so the boy had turned to the people that cared for them for further information. 

"I've also been learning more about Floriography when I can." 

John tilted his head as they walked, arms linked, through his parents' gardens. It probably looked odd for two young men do be doing so, but there was no one watching them, and besides, _"I wouldn't want you to get lost" he'd told the older boy teasingly_. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Alexander stopped near a bed of roses and smiled, "The language of flowers, my dear John. It was introduced to the King's country in, I believe 1717, by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. It's become quite popular in other lands—flowers that mean love, or friendship, good health, condolences, or grief. There's even a flower that corresponds to each month of the solar year." 

"There is?" The blond asked, sounding genuinely intrigued now. 

His younger companion was now brushing his fingertips along the dew-dappled petals of one of the rose blooms, carefully avoiding the thorns that jutted out of the stems, "Indeed. When is your birthday, John?"

"Near the end of October, why?"

Alexander turned away for a moment, searching, and then he beamed and grabbed the other by the hand, pulling him down the pathway with a specific destination in mind. "According to the language of flowers, the plant regarded as that of October is any flower of the Marigold family, but particularly Calendula. Its name comes from the Latin word _calendae."_ He explained. 

" _'Little Calender?'_ " John translated the word, his eyebrows furrowing. 

His friend hummed in agreement as they came to a stop aside a large plot of brilliant orange to dark red flowers, flat yet perfectly round in the shape of the flower-heads. They were beautiful. "The flowers are annual in less warm climates because they dislike frost, but are very versatile and can tolerate just about any kind of soil you put them in. Aren't they lovely?"

"Quite. What's your flower?" 

Alexander's smile wavered slightly and he turned and pointed to a bed of deep red carnations, just a couple of rows down. "January. At least, as far as I can tell."

He frowned, "What do you mean by that?"

The thirteen-year-old crossed his arms self-consciously, "My father is fairly certain that I was born in January, but my mother left me on the beach when I was but a few weeks old, and he took me in, so we can't be sure of anything."

"Sir Washington told you this?" He asked, his voice gentle now, seeing the look in the boy's eyes was enough to cause him heart ache. 

Alexander shook his head, "He didn't exactly tell me... I went looking through his papers..." he finally admitted, and seeing the shocked look on John's face he quickly added, "Only because I did not wish to insult him by questioning whether I was indeed a foundling or his illegitimate son as his guests kept insinuating. I needed an answer, but it appears that he knows less about my origins than even I do." He tore his gaze away from his friend to stare out at the gardens. "I just wanted to know if he was truly my father."

There was an arm around his shoulders then, "I think it doesn't matter where your blood leads you. You are his son regardless of what anyone else would tell you. Lift your head now, Alexander. Why don't you tell me more about this garden? My mother used to love gardening but she would have my head if I attempted to touch her prized plants." He shared, still feeling a pang of pain as he thought of her rather recent passing. "Is your mother the same way?" 

Instead of the topic cheering him up, Alexander seemed to wilt. _My mother isn't the one who planted this garden._

"Alex?"

He'd started to explain this to John, or at least try to find the words to, but instead the boy cut himself off mid-sentence and stared at the ground. 

To his surprise, the older boy didn't pull away, "...You don't like how your father runs his estate do you?" 

Alexander's head jerked up, his eyes wide.

"He's not a bad person, John, I _swear—_ "

John squeezed his shoulder, "That's not what I asked, Alex. I can tell he's a good man, I saw it when he came to rescue you, when he _saved_ all of us. Most people would have been disturbed, probably, by what they saw in the cargo hold, but they wouldn't have _done_ anything about it. You don't need to defend him to me, okay? Just... tell me how you feel."

"I... I hate it." Alexander finally admitted in a miserable whisper. "I feel the guilt upon my shoulders when I see them as if I were Atlas carrying the world upon his back, John. I can't pretend to be like them." 

"Them?" 

Gesturing vaguely in the direction of Virginia—or perhaps the South in general—the younger boy sighed sadly, " _Them_. They see that they look different from us, talk different, come from _somewhere_ different... and that it means they aren't people. Or if they are, they are of a lesser variety of human. That they have no capability to love or learn or feel and it... sickens me. There's different shades, I'll admit. Father doesn't treat them unkindly if he can help it, he allows them their religion and to profit off of their own skills in their free time, he does not keep them in chains or beat them for his own amusement, but... it's still wrong. A gentle enslavement is _still_ enslavement. I wish I could make him understand that. What good is a home if you're a prisoner within it?" He asked cynically, and it sounded as though he was quoting someone.

Unsure what to say, but rather bewildered that someone as young as Alexander was capable of such insight when most adults in the Colonies _weren't_ , John chose his answer carefully, "Some people are... incapable of change. But, I don't think Sir Washington is one of them. People are products of the expectations they are raised under, however it doesn't mean that growing out of them is impossible. If anyone could help him to see the truth one day, Alexander, I know it will be you." He had no doubt that this was a kid who would do amazing things, his eloquence and intellect came naturally to him; he couldn't wait to see how his friend would one day use it.

"You really think?" The boy asked, and he nodded.

Alexander wiped the corners of his eyes with the edge of his sleeve and he pretended not to notice.

"Come on, I don't know how long I'll be staying with you, so you had better take this opportunity to show me everything." John tugged the younger boy closer with his arm still around his shoulders as they left the gardens.

It was nice to have someone to talk to regarding something he personally felt very strongly about, but in all honesty, John got the feeling that the last thing Alexander needed right now was to be burdening himself with his family's choices. Not after what he had just been through. He didn't know how long it would take but at some point the reality of it would hit the boy hard, and he intended to be there to help him through it when that time came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this to be longer but I hate trying to drag out a chapter that feels like it's meant to be short and sweet, because all it does is feel like a filler and also delay an update. 
> 
> The next update after this will likely involving Alex and John becoming best friends before parting ways until the war, a deeper look into how Alexander's trauma has affected him (especially without someone there who understands what he went through), and hopefully - finally - the final timeskip before George gets dragged into the war by Congress.
> 
> I'll be updating "In The Eye Of A Hurricane" later today, hopefully.
> 
> Translations for the 'Greek song' the woman was singing (which I wrote, as you can probably tell by how bad it is), courtesy of Google Translate: 
> 
> “My treasure at sea,  
> My love, come home to me...  
> Listen to your heart,  
> Sing the song of the sea... ”
> 
> “Feel the wind and the water, so free,  
> A silent melody of ecstasy.  
> Immerse yourself in joy and pain,  
> in the forces of thunder and rain. "


	14. Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A closer look at John Laurens and his situation with the Washingtons, and his feelings for Alex. Meanwhile, Alexander clings to his newfound friend and begins searching for a gift for his sixteenth birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions of past child sexual abuse, suicidal thoughts, and more mentions of slavery, with implications of victim blaming/self blame and period typical homophobia/internalized homophobia.

_October, 1770_

John couldn't sleep.

After tossing and turning in his bed for well over an hour, he had eventually decided to get a drink of water, as he was parched. At least, that was the excuse he had used with Patsy the next morning, as she had apparently heard him get up, and asked him if he was okay. If he was going to be completely honest with himself, though, he _wasn't_. 

Though the Washingtons were kind and welcoming to him from the moment he had arrived, he had to admit it was difficult to sleep through the night with so many different thoughts plaguing his mind at every given moment. 

He missed his father.

It was something he never would have admitted to at age thirteen, fourteen, or hell, even six months ago, but it was true. As much as their ideals clashed with one another, he couldn't stop thinking about him, and of his younger siblings. Oh, how he wanted to see them again. How were Patsy and Harry? Was Jemmy still a troublesome little devil that climbed on everything? How was his father coping with trying to care for baby Polly without mother there to guide him through it, as she had been for all the previous Laurens children? How long had it taken for his father to notice he was gone? 

...Did he even care?

Multiple times a day, John considered going to Sir Washington and explaining everything, pleading for assistance to return home. He would gladly have taken up work in order to pay him back the expenses if his father wouldn't. 

But then he remembered how long he had been gone, and what had happened to him... the thought of having to explain where he had been since June made his stomach churn. He could imagine their disappointment when they found out what he had done, a thought which stung, but not nearly as much as the revulsion they would surely feel. Would they tell him it was his own fault, for running around with _shady people?_ For being _unrealistic_ in his desire to help free the South from slavery all together?

That whatever abuses he suffered aboard that ship were his own fault, because of his... _inclinations?_

His stomach nearly rebelled at the thought that he was somehow _asking_ for what Chambers had done to him; there may have been something wrong with him, for all he knew he was sick and morally bankrupt and God had 'abandoned' him for that reason, but he still had a sense of pride, of love for himself, and regardless of his own personal demons, he had never wanted _that_.

He couldn't stay in that room any longer, it felt too small, too suffocating; he needed _air_.

So he left.

If it weren't for his worry over getting caught and questioned about what he was doing, he would have unlocked the door and stepped outside, just to breathe in the fresh, cool Virginia air.

In the end he did get a drink, but only after pacing around the halls of the large manor made him grow more and more anxious, to the point where he had started to lose his bearings; why were there so many hallways? This wasn't right; he didn't _belong_ here. But, then again, he hadn't exactly fit in at his own home either, so where should the fifteen-year-old be? He didn't know, but he wanted it to be far, far away from here. Away from the tobacco and wheat and rice fields and the sickening violations of human autonomy and the unfairness of it all (he couldn't stop _thinking_ of those children chained up in the hold), but mostly he wanted to be separated from his own mind. It wouldn't leave him _alone_.

 _You could always go jump off the roof_ , a nasty little voice told him in the back of his worst thoughts, where the darkness liked to attack him by surprise unprompted.

John scoffed at himself; because that had worked out _so well_ for him in '69.

All he'd had to show for it was a summer spent with a broken arm that still hurt whenever it was going to rain, and the disappointment in his parents' eyes when he'd tried and failed to give them a plausible explanation for what he had been doing up there in the first place. They loved him, he knew they did, but... he wasn't everything they would have wanted in an heir, and as much as he tried, he couldn't bring himself to pretend to be something he wasn't. Some days he wanted to, though, just to see if it made things easier.

Perhaps his own mental turmoil was why he'd become so fixated on a cause; if he was too busy trying to help other people, he didn't have time to think deeply about everything that was wrong with _him_.

His father wasn't an evil man, he knew of his son's hatred for that barbaric practice, and there were times John thought he was starting to get through to him. Henry Laurens, after all, had vowed never to sell his slaves for profit, and he had only ever bought new ones if it was for the sake of reuniting a family. His father very clearly expressed doubts over the morality of the trade, but the young man still stood firm in his belief that _regardless_ of how many people could be convinced to stop buying and selling their fellow humans, they could never truly move passed it until each and every one of them was free, without condition or restriction. He didn't have the finer details planned out, yet, but someday, he was going to make it a reality. 

Doing that meant he had to be strong; he had to keep living for _their_ sake.

Taking a deep breath as he began to make his way to the top of the stairs, John wiped away the traces of tears that had been building up his eyes and, just as he was about to return to the room that Mrs Washington was so gracious as to prepare for him, he noticed a light emitting from beneath Alexander's door, which was slightly ajar; he hadn't noticed it going downstairs because he wasn't looking that way before.

Inching closer, he cautiously peered through the crack, and spotted the yellow floral bed, empty and with the covers all askew, and Alexander slumped over his desk that sat near the foot of the bed, apparently having fallen asleep doing... whatever he had been doing, the candle that flickered dangerously close to his face no larger than a thumb at this point. 

What was he doing at his desk in the middle of the night?

Frowning, John carefully tugged the door open just wide enough so that he could squeeze in, setting his own chamberstick down on the bedside table, and approached Alexander, finding him well and truly unconscious, his hand still resting atop the quill he had not even bothered to replace in the inkpot, and a small pile of papers scattered about the wooden surface; apparently he had fallen asleep while writing. Curious, he tugged one of the pages gently out from underneath Alexander's cheek, taking care not to wake the younger boy, and let his eyes wander down the paper, feeling himself stop short more than once to look at the sleeping redhead in surprise. 

He wrote _this?_

_In yonder mead my love I found_  
_Beside a murm’ring brook reclin’d;_  
_Her pretty lambkins dancing round_  
_Secure in harmless bliss._  
_I bad the waters gently glide,_  
_And vainly hush’d the heedless wind,_  
_Then, softly kneeling by her side,_  
_I stole a silent kiss—_

_She wak’d, and rising sweetly blush’d_  
_By far more artless than the dove:_  
_With eager haste I onward rush’d,_  
_And clasp’d her in my arms;_  
_Encircled thus in fond embrace_  
_Our panting hearts beat mutual love—_  
_A rosy-red o’er spread her face_  
_And brighten’d all her charms._

_Silent she stood, and sigh’d consent_  
_To every tender kiss I gave;_  
_I closely urg’d—to church we went,_  
_And hymen join’d our hands._  
_Ye swains behold my bliss complete;_  
_No longer then your own delay;_  
_Believe me love is doubly sweet_  
_In wedlocks holy bands.—_

_Content we tend our flocks by day,_  
_Each rural pleasures amply taste;_  
_And at the suns retiring ray_  
_Prepare for new delight:_  
_When from the field we haste away,_  
_And send our blithsome care to rest,_  
_We fondly sport and fondly play,_  
_And love away the night._

It was a love poem, obviously, not only that but it was _Alexander's_ poem...

He wasn't surprised by the fact that the boy liked to write poetry, he had mentioned enjoying jotting down whatever thought came to mind before, but the younger male had made it sound like it was a hobby for him, not a _passion_. He hadn't expected this sort of writing from a thirteen-year-old, certainly not one about wistful desires for love at first sight or "rural pleasures." 

John liked to write, but even this was beyond his level, this was _artwork_. 

Even his penmanship was beautiful to look at.

Shaking his head to clear it, the blond carefully returned the paper to where he had found it and grimaced at the way Alexander had his head turned, cheek pressed flush against the desk. His neck was going to be in a lot of pain in the morning if he stayed like that all night. Carefully, John tugged the chair out and lifted the smaller boy into his arms, prompting a soft sigh from him, "...Papa?" 

"Shh. No, Alex, it's just me." He corrected, carrying Alexander to his bed and laying him back down against the sheets, brushing some hair away from his face before pulling the blankets up over his body. He looked peaceful in his dreamy half-asleep state. Dark waves of auburn hair fanned out against the pillows, framing the shape of his face, the gently flickering candlelight casting shadows against his soft, fair features. 

John swallowed hard and took a step backwards as he realized how undeniably _charming_ of a picture Alexander made. 

_What is wrong with you? He's just a little kid!_ He chided himself; and while logically knowing there wasn't more than two years between them, with his own sixteenth year approaching and Alex's fourteenth a few months after, he still felt bothered by the fact that his mind thought his new companion was _pretty_ , as if he needed to be reminded of what was wrong with him. They were _friends_ , nothing more. Alexander was clearly a dreamer, but his dreams involved falling in love with an enchanting maiden to live out his days with. If he knew John was in his room, invading his space and reading his private writings, he would likely be disgusted. 

He couldn't even appreciate having a kind friend who had come back to rescue him when he didn't need to, without his perverted mind trying to corrupt that relationship.

Attempting to ignore the stinging sensation that returned to his eyes, John turned to rush back to his own chambers when a hand caught the hem of his sleeve. 

"Don't go..." Half-open violet eyes gazed at the older boy as his fingers curled around his wrist. "I had a bad dream, and I couldn't sleep... I kept remembering _him_." His breath quickened slightly, but he didn't let go of John, and the other found himself at a loss for how to respond to that. He had nightmares too, of course, and that was if he managed to sleep at all, but after so many months he'd just kind of... gotten _used_ to feeling scared all the time, to only falling asleep when he was properly exhausted enough to do so. It had become necessary on the boat to get used to it, or he would have died. "Stay?"

Alexander, thank God, hadn't been given the time to adjust to that; but that didn't mean he wasn't going to be just as upset or frightened as anyone else.

Poor kid probably didn't want to be alone.

"I shouldn't... it's not appropriate." He whispered back, glancing over his shoulder in case someone heard them and came to investigate; what would they think of him being in the other boy's room so late at night? 

If Alex had been properly awake he would have rolled his eyes at his new friend, "Do you intend to ravish me in my sleep, John?" He asked bluntly, and John jerked back, his face turning red, looking affronted, a protest at the tip of his tongue. "Then there is nothing for me to worry about, now is there? Please, my dear friend, stay... just for tonight? I..." his grip loosened, and the blond felt his stomach plummet when he realized there were _tears_ glittering in the corners of his eyes. "I don't want to be alone again tonight..."

Aw, hell. 

"Scoot over," John grumbled, reluctantly crawling in beside Alexander as the smaller boy moved to inner edge of the bed with a triumphant grin, slipping underneath the covers. He told himself he was going to sneak out as soon as the younger boy fell asleep again, he would only stay with him for a few minutes, and not a moment longer...

Waking up the next morning, he found himself splayed out not unlike a starfish with Alexander's arms wrapped around his midsection and gently snoring against the crook of his neck.

So much for that plan, then.

* * *

Alexander was enjoying John's presence at the estate more than he cared to admit.

It was nice to have someone close to his own age that he had plenty in common with, from their mutual interest in writing and politics, both fluent in French and Latin and learning other languages, to how at ease he felt around the older boy in general; more than once John had calmed his nerves during a particularly bad thunderstorm. He, in turn, was more than happy to read his work to John or simply keep him company when the blond was struggling with his own inner demons, of which it was becoming apparent that he had many of. 

He loved Jacky, he really did, but his brother was _lazy_ , more interested in having a good time or flirting with young ladies than striving to better himself whenever possible, and his dearest Patsy's fits grew worse as the weeks passed, she couldn't even continue her classes anymore. Without his brother and sister to spend time with, it would have been awfully lonely on Mount Vernon, were it not for John's companionship. 

Unfortunately, having a confidante didn't immediately heal all his wounds; he learned that the hard way. 

"Oh, that reminds me, I have a package I need sent off this week." His mother said one day over breakfast.

Alexander's eyes brightened; he needed to go to the city, it was John's birthday soon. "I can go for you, Ma." Someone would need to take the carriage to the nearest town, Alexandria, and have it delivered from there. As there were plenty of shops nearby, he would have ample opportunity to pick something up for his new friend. "I'm feeling kind of restless sitting around the house all day."

His father stiffened at his words, for some reason, and said, "Alright, but take John with you." The man said it casually; he had truly begun to trust the older boy ever since realizing how protective he was of Alexander, and learning how he had put himself into danger in an attempt to save him. 

But that wasn't what Alexander wanted; John couldn't be there while he was trying to find him a gift!

However, before he could think of an excuse to go alone, the blond in question spoke up, "As much as I would love to go into the city, Sir, I was actually hoping... maybe I could speak with you privately this afternoon? If, um, you could spare me a moment of your time, that is..." He added quickly, his downcast gaze preventing him from seeing the perplexed look Alexander gave him.

George, however, didn't seem bothered in the slightest, "Of course, John. Jack, would you mind...?" he looked to his stepson, and Alexander couldn't help but feel frustrated at the fact his father was actively trying to get someone to watch him. It was bad enough he wasn't permitted to ride into the city on his own on one of the horses - he had to take William and the carriage - but now father wanted him to have an escort, too? It was ridiculous; he wasn't going to run away again! 

_I learned my lesson_ , he thought with an unpleasant feeling growing in his stomach. 

Jacky just shrugged however, "Yeah, sure. I could go for a trip into the city." 

Ugh.

* * *

Shortly after breakfast had ended, Jacky and Alex had gotten ready and taken the carriage into the city with William, their father’s valet, preparing the carriage for their trip into the city. George had some work to get done in his office but he did promise they could talk later, so there was that.

Mrs. Washington disappeared somewhere upstairs with Patsy and a doctor soon after that; he overheard something about attempting to bleed the girl again in an effort to cure her fits, which his mind immediately shuddered away from the thought of.

John was left to wander the house after that, exploring the various well decorated rooms in search of something to do.

Eventually heading back towards his room, he thought about composing a letter to his family, but his stomach swooped at the idea, realizing he wasn’t quite ready for that yet. Instead of entering his room, he glanced at the staircase going up and, seeing as how nobody had told him he wasn’t allowed up there, he tentatively made his way up.

As he quickly learned... upstairs was boring. It was mainly a guest chambers, but one that oddly was separated by the staircase landing. Two rooms to his left and two to his right looked to compose it, but the actual beds were only in two of the four rooms even though each one could easily have its own, one on each side; additionally, at the furthest end of the third floor were two lumber rooms, again with one on each side, that attached to the chambers. He couldn't help but wonder if the separated chambers were for when he and Mrs. Washington were going through marital disputes.

Or perhaps Mr. Washington wanted his house to be as symmetrical as possible. 

Disappointed by how boringly normal the third floor was, he turned to go back down, but found his eye drawn to a door he hadn’t noticed before, directly across the hallway from the staircase. 

He opened the door slowly, mildly concerned he would run into something inappropriate up here, an absurd fear to have considering how obvious it was that the Washingtons used this floor mainly for storage. Indeed, as he peered into the room, it looked to be just a china closet, with glass of all different sorts lining shelves. 

[The room](https://www.mountvernon.org/the-estate-gardens/location/bulls-eye-room/) had an interesting window that overlooked the property, it reminded him of the eye of a bull, but not much else of note. At least, that was what he thought until he noticed a slip of paper poking out from underneath a bone porcelain teapot. He carefully opened the note and, realizing it was Alexander’s handwriting, although less refined, began to read it, expecting another poem. 

Instead, the note read: 

_There’s a secret in this closet!  
It’s in the last place you would look;  
The secret is not behind the shelves, nor hidden in any book.  
_ _You won’t find it on the ceiling, in a teacup or on a stand.  
If you want to find the secret, I’ll lend you a helping hand.  
_ _The secret is the shadow of the beast, you'll see it when the sun is in the East;  
Patience is a virtue, of that we must agree,  
Without it you can look and look, but you'll not find the key.  
_ _So let the light go down a bit, just close your eyes and sit,  
And when the rays turn orange and pink, you’ll find the secret in a blink._

_\- A.W._

...What? That made no sense. _Keys? Sunset?_

What was his friend going on about; had Alexander hidden something important in here?

Taking a seat leaning against a wall, John carefully reread the note twice, but all that he could make from it was that the younger boy couldn’t have been much older than eight or nine when he wrote it.  It said to wait until the sun was setting to find this supposed secret, but that was hours away! Still, it wasn't as though he had anything _better_ to do at the moment.

A strange sort of giddiness coiled in the blond’s stomach; he wanted to solve this mystery. Maybe Alexander didn’t even remember it, and he could go and show him whatever it was for fun later. Deciding he would wait there all day in the hope it wasn’t a trick, John closed his eyes, letting his mind drift to his parents and siblings.

Before he knew it, he was being gently shook awake by Mr. Washington himself. 

The boy's head snapped up, "Oh, Sir! I didn't hear you!" 

Washington looked bemused, "No, I should think not, given how soundly you were snoring the day away." He knelt down by John, his eyebrows drawn together, "We couldn't find you anywhere, my wife was quite concerned that you had run off some place unsafe. Did you not sleep well last night, son?" 

John shook his head, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist, "No, Sir. I kept dreaming about... well, in any case, I'm sorry to have caused you and Mrs. Washington concern. I was just waiting for the sun to set." 

"The sun? What on Earth for?" 

Without really thinking about it, John passed the man the poem by Alexander he had found, "I was exploring, there's so many rooms up here! I was about to leave when I found it, it seemed like a mystery worth solving." He saw the frown on George's face, an incredulous expression that said _'What was my boy getting up to in here anyways?'_ "Do you know what secret to which he is referring, Sir?"

Washington folded the note and put it away in his waistcoat pocket, "Unfortunately I do not, Alexander's imagination has always eluded me, I'm afraid. Now, we really must be heading downstairs. Are you hungry? You didn't eat much at breakfast, Martha usually has tea on the piazza at this point while watching the sunset, the view is quite lovely from there." 

John frowned, "But, Sir! The mystery..." Wait a minute. The view. "The secret is in the eye of the Beast, that's it!" He jumped up, ignoring Washington's startled expression, and ran over to the window, the one shaped like an eye. A bull's eye, in fact. "A bull could be considered a beast, and if the sun needs to be in the East to see it..." He stood with his back to the window, holding his hands in the shape of a frame and imaging he was seeing a shaft of light come through, and where it would land. That was when he saw it. "Oh, Alexander, you are so clever!" 

He moved to the center of the room and dropped to his knees, picking at a section of the floor that looked... off.

"Son?" 

John knocked on the floor, listening to the solid thuds as he tapped his fist up and down until he heard it; a slightly hollow-sounding noise, different from the other knocks, near the center of the room between the window and door. 

Wordlessly, he lifted up the slightly uneven panel of wood, revealing a hole no larger than the size of a small snuff box, with a tied leather pouch in it. He withdrew it, careful in case there was something absurd like a hidden trap. John untied the pouch and the four corners fell open, revealing all sorts of things, none of them making much sense to him. Pretty shells no longer inhabited by any kind of animal, bits of gold Alexander had probably found that had broken off a lode, colorful bits of glass bottle shards that had been tumbled smooth by the sea, and a dried sand dollar. "Oh, wow. These are beautiful! I didn't know Alexander went swimming." He looked up at the man and found his stomach dropping.

George was angry.

No, not angry... _furious and terrified_ more aptly described his expression in that moment, and John swallowed, "Sir...?" 

Silent as the Reaper himself, the former soldier turned and marched out of the room and downstairs, leaving the blond boy with the feeling that he'd just messed up terribly, and that Alexander was going to pay the price for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will probably be published later this afternoon and will include George’s talk with John, Alex & Jacky shopping in the city and Martha having a mother-son moment with Alexander when the trip doesn’t go 100% as planned.
> 
> In case you’re wondering about the names of John’s siblings, they’re all nicknames used at the time for common given names (literally everybody named Martha was nicknamed Patsy back then okay; Martha Laurens, Martha Washington, Martha Custis, Martha Manning, etc) and a perusal of letters written by John and Henry Laurens refers to them as these often. Here are the names/nicknames of the Laurens children that survived passed infancy below (Eleanor & Henry has thirteen in total but many died as infants or were stillborn): 
> 
> “Jack” = John Laurens (Oct. 28, 1754 - Aug. 27th, 1782)  
> “Patsy” = Martha Laurens (Nov. 3rd, 1759 - June 10th, 1811)  
> “Harry” = Henry Laurens Jr. (Aug. 25th, 1763 - May 27th, 1821)  
> “Jemmy” = James Laurens (Nov. 26th, 1765 - Sept. 5th, 1775)  
> “Polly” = Mary Eleanor Laurens (April 27th, 1770 - Oct. 6th, 1794)
> 
> The love poem is strongly believed to be one Hamilton wrote in his youth on the islands and had published to the American Danish Gazette in 1771, signed by an "A.H." 
> 
> Hamilton was apparently writing really good poetry from as young as 14-16, depending on when his real birthday was, everything from wrathful descriptions of God punishing humans for their greed and arrogance by summoning the hurricane to his town, to sweet romantic things like this, to political commentary. He seemed to have been a fan of Alexander Pope. So, yeah, not my poem (I wish I was that good but Ye Olde English is just beyond me for the most part, lol).
> 
> I wrote the bad puzzle though, hahaha.


	15. Promises & Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was funny how a single year could change you so much. 
> 
> One day you're having dinner with your family, and the next... well. He was going to miss that, but he needed answers, ones that couldn't be found with his father, nor in Virginia. There was only one person he could ask, and that was the woman who had given him up fourteen years ago.
> 
> Alex stood with a somber sort of acceptance on the bow of the ship as he watched his home disappear on the horizon, heading for the West Indies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to child sexual abuse and kidnapping, as well as mentions of PTSD and self-directed victim blaming and homophobia.

_October, 1770_

The moment they entered the house, Alexander took off up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him, racing passed his parents, John and Patsy who were all sitting in the front parlor, partaking in afternoon tea and pastries, and he didn't stop to say hello, not even when he was called after. 

"Alexander, come back here! Your father needs to—" Martha heard the boy's bedroom door slam shut. "—talk to you..." she shared a concerned glance with her husband, who had been nearly speechless with anger earlier when he had come downstairs after locating their young guest on the third floor; apparently he and John had come across some of their son's belongings which indicated that he had been sneaking out, or at least that used to. He was expressly forbidden from going near the wharf without one of them with him, he'd known about that rule for years. 

However, George, who had been preparing himself to lecture the unruly teenager, now just looked worried. 

It wasn't like their boy to just run to his room like that without regard for anybody else; Alexander was a lot of things, but unless something was very wrong, rude wasn't usually one of them.

Just then, Jacky walked in, his expression confused, frustrated and worried. He sat down at the table with a groan and dropped his head onto his arms, "That could _not_ have possibly gone worse, Ma!"

"What happened?" Martha sighed and poured her son a cup of tea. 

"I don't know," He admitted, lifting his head up only after she nudged him. It was impolite to speak with your face in your arms, after all. "I thought everything was going fine. We sent the package off, got what we needed to, and he suddenly just loses his shit!"

She sent him a warning look, "Watch your language, young man." 

"Sorry. But it was embarrassing. We went outside to the carriage, I realized I forgot to pick up the necklace you were having fixed, Ma, so I went back in to ask about it. Next thing I know I hear Alex screaming!" The couple's eyebrows shoot up, and they were exchanging looks. That didn't sound like the Alex they knew at all. But, then again... "I ran out and he was crying and yelling like a damn loon, and there's this older gentleman standing there looking completely baffled. I asked him what was wrong and he said he just touched his shoulder and asked him if he had the time, that was it, but Alexander lost it and started having one of those fits he sometimes gets when it storms. But it wasn't storming, Pops, I swear! It was sunny and clear out, you know I don't judge him for... that. I know he can't help it. He wouldn't even tell me what was wrong though." 

By _that_ , he was of course referring to the time Alexander had nearly died after going overboard into the river when he was five; it had deeply traumatized his younger brother. Both Jacky and Patsy were informed that while teasing each other in good fun was fine and well (something Alexander happily partook in when playing with his siblings), they were not to use that particular subject against him, as he couldn't help that he was frightened by bad weather. 

"Calm down, Jacky. No one is upset with you. Tell us what happened." 

The young man sighed and ran a hand back over his hair, "I tried to get him to calm down and tell me what happened, but as soon as I approached him he started yelling at me in French." 

His father's eyes sharpened at that, "In French? Do you know what he said?" 

Jacky shook his head, "No, you know I was never any good with that, Pops. Greek and Latin aren't too bad but French always confused me. I couldn't even hear most of what he was saying, that's how little sense he was making. I think it was something like, ' _Je ñ'en vouloir pas',_ maybe?" He offered, butchering the words more than slightly, but John sat forward suddenly, looking green. 

"Did he say anything else?" He demanded, and George was reminded that John Laurens spoke French rather fluently.

"Uh, yeah... he kept repeating the same things over and over again. _'Arrêtez!'_ and _'Oh Dieu, s'il te plait, ne le fais pas'_ and _'S'il vous plaît arrêtez'_ , things like that. He seemed honestly scared; if the gentleman hadn't been so confused and upset by the whole thing I would have thought he'd done something to set him off, but he really did just want to know the time. _Dieu_ means 'God', doesn't it?" 

The blond boy suddenly seemed unbearably sad, "Oh, Alex..."

He slid out of his seat and started to leave; Washington followed him, "John, wait a moment." 

Spinning around almost too quickly, John faced the man, "Sir, I know Alexander is in trouble for what we found upstairs; I don't know why, and I won't presume to question your authority on how to raise your son, but... let me speak with him first, please?" He asked, crystalline eyes wide and bright with concern for the other boy. "You don't want to know what he was saying, believe me, but I think he needs to talk about what's happening to him and it's not going to be with someone like you. I mean no disrespect, Sir, but you _are_ his father," he said, despite the nervous rolling of his stomach. "I wouldn't talk to my father about what happened on that ship either, please understand." 

George waited until the teen finally seemed to run out of things to say, and told him, "Actually, I was just going to tell you that Alexander trusts you very much, and to please make sure he's alright for me." 

"...Oh." John blushed, realizing he had jumped the gun on that one. "...My apologies, Sir."

The older man waved it off, "Don't worry about it. I'll speak to Alex about what you found in a bit, when he feels better." 

_Unfortunately_ , the blond thought with a growing ache inside of him, _I think it will take much longer than 'a bit' for Alexander to feel better_.

* * *

When he arrived upstairs, the younger boy's door was, predictably, both shut and locked. 

John gently tapped on it, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

No answer. 

"Alexander?" He called out softly. "I know you're in there. C'mon, Alex, I just want to talk; unlock the door. You don't have to say anything or tell me what happened, I promise, just let me in so I can make sure you're okay. Please? I'm... I'm worried about you." He admitted.

Nearly a minute passed in silence, and he was about to turn and leave, deflated, when he heard a quiet click and the door opened ever so slightly. Violet eyes peeked out from the crack. "There's no one else with you?" He asked softly, and the withdrawn, shaken tone in the other's voice made John's chest hurt for his friend. He shook his head. There was an exhale from the redhead and then the door opened a little more, his eyes downcast as he silently invited him in. Despite the effort to hide his face, the fact that Alexander had been crying was fairly obvious.

He stepped into his room, careful not to accidentally brush up against Alexander as he did so.

"You're hands are trembling... are you cold?" he asked softly, hoping innocent questions would make him more inclined to answer, at least until he was calm.

Alexander shook his head, and said nothing for a long time; John was about to suggest they talk about something fun (to distract him), when the younger boy said, "No... I don't get cold unless I'm sick." That was odd; the winters could get quite brisk in Virginia despite it's normally warm climate; he had noticed Alexander's aversion to the heat though, he always avoided rooms where stoves or fireplaces were lit, claiming he got too warm.

He didn't challenge the statement, though his frown deepened; if Alexander's hands weren't shaking because he was cold, then... 

"You're afraid." The blond said softly, realization washing through him when he saw the pained expression flash across the younger's face. He'd seen that before too - Jacky had tried to hug him the other night and Alex had all but ducked to avoid the unwanted touch. Being in close contact with other people hadn't bothered John thus far, but he did feel uneasy in small rooms, and the dark frightened him. Perhaps the things that upset them would continue being different despite the shared horror. "Am I scaring you? I can leave. I don't want to make you feel worse. I was just concerned because of some things Jacky said and—" He stopped, seeing the redhead curl his arms around his small midsection, sniffling.

The blond instinctively took a step towards him before halting abruptly. "Alex...? Can I... hug you?" 

Another pause, and then a sort of half-shrug was given in answer.

Taking that as consent, John slowly closed the distance between them and wrapped his own arms around the younger teen, holding him tightly as shakes began to wrack his body.

”It’s alright, Alexander. You don’t have to feel guilty about how you reacted... it isn’t your fault...” he whispered, and the other responded with a half-choked sob as he desperately fought back against the tears in his eyes. John felt him beginning to fall and quickly dropped to his knees on the floor with Alexander, holding him close as he silently cried, stroking a hand through his dark red hair. "It won't be easy, but eventually..." Eventually what? He couldn't guarantee that Alexander would ever get over this. John hadn't even had the worst experiences with Captain Chambers and he still felt like he would never be clean again, like he was going to be dirty and tainted forever.

He felt the thirteen-year-old gripping his shirt tightly, his breathing ragged as he struggled to compose himself enough to speak, "How... how are you so... _okay_ with what happened?" Alex asked him, hiccuping, his voice somewhat muffled from where he was curled up in the blond's arms. "I-I feel afraid all the time... I don't want to eat, and I'm sleeping poorly. I keep imagining my family trying to... hurt me even though I know they never would, and every time I think about _him_ I want to be sick. I can still feel his _h-hands_ on me... I know it was so much w-worse for you, but you're being so strong... how do you do it?" he finally looked up, his eyes red and tears streaming down his face. 

There was a big wet spot on John's shoulder from his crying but neither boy paid any attention to it.

John tightened his arms around Alexander and thought about how to respond for a moment.

He didn't want to tell the younger teen the truth, but at the same time he couldn't lie, either. "I'm... I'm _not_ okay, Alex. There are some moments I feel like the pain is never going to go away," he didn't specify whether he meant physically or mentally, but it didn't matter since they were both intertwined at this point, or so it felt. "I feel angry and afraid and guilty... I may have killed that man back on the boat and I know I should be praying for forgiveness but all I can bring myself to think is that I shouldn't have wasted the bullet on him, but gone after that bastard, Leonard, directly." He wanted him dead. He hoped they hanged him in a crowded town square so all the monsters out there knew what was coming for them if they ever got caught. "Sometimes I feel like I deserve what happened," he reluctantly admitted, and Alexander's head snapped up, a shocked and horrified expression on his face when he heard that.

"John—" 

The older boy covered his mouth with his hand for a moment just to stop what he was no doubt going to say. "I know it's stupid, that it's not my fault and no one deserves what happened, but... it's how I feel. I was taken because I broke the rules and kept spending time with people I shouldn't have. I screwed up and I got hurt because of it. I'm trying not to think that way, but..." He shrugged. "Anyway, no matter how okay I seem I'm really not... I'm just good at pretending, I guess." 

"You shouldn't." Alexander whispered after a moment. 

He looked down at him, puzzled, "What?"

"You..." His friend pulled away slightly and wiped his eyes, "You shouldn't pretend to be okay if you aren't. John, you've been there for me since the first moment I woke up on that boat, you protected me. I want to be there to help you too." His hands suddenly gripped both of the blond's, his eyes so fierce they looked like they were nearly glowing. "We can be there for each other, so neither of us have to suffer alone. Okay?" 

John swallowed the lump in his throat and hugged Alexander again, burying his face against his auburn curls, "Okay, Alex."

* * *

Later that night, after dinner, the South Carolinian teenager made his way downstairs to George's office, hesitating outside the door. 

He had to do this.

 _You have to tell him eventually; just go get it over with_. Taking a deep breath and mentally bringing up an image of his younger siblings, John lifted his hand and gave a couple of gentle but firm knocks on the door, opening it only when he heard the quiet _'Come in'_ that responded from behind it. _Relax, he isn't going to hurt you if you tell him you have a family already. Look how kind he's been to you thus far. If anything, maybe he'll be pleased because Father might offer him a reward for your safe return home_. 

To his nearly staggering relief, the office was not a tiny cramped nightmare like what he had been irrationally fearing all evening now; instead it was spacious, larger in width than it was in length, and just as respectable as he would have anticipated a man of Mr. Washington's stature to be.

"Good evening, John. I suppose you're here about the conversation you mentioned earlier at breakfast? You may come in." 

Setting his quill down, John was beckoned inside by the man and, though it made him nervous to do so, the boy shut the door behind himself, "Yes. Thank you, Sir." 

As he looked around the room, the first things that he noticed was that A) it was less lavishly decorated than the rest of the home which he supposed meant that Mrs. Washington was the primary decorator at Mount Vernon since Mr. Washington's personal space could be considered plain by comparison, and B) there was a portrait hanging on the back wall of a tall young man with dark eyes, dressed in red. Judging by his appearance and the location of the portrait, he thought it was safe to guess that this man was related to George in some way. His father or brother, perhaps?

It was reassuring to note that there was in fact two doors to the office, the one he had entered through which led from a hallway that led to a door to the west front of the house, the access point of the butler's pantry, and connected to the dining room. The other door, which Alexander had told him about, led to a private hallway upstairs that connected Alex's bedroom and the Washingtons', as well as a door to the guest bedroom on the first floor. 

Two doors meant two easy ways to _escape_ if he felt trapped.

Good, that was... good.

He could feel Washington's eyes on him and started to feel nervous, like he shouldn't have come here, when the other spoke, and he jumped a little. "You can have a look around if you're curious, son." 

Letting out a breath, John inched along the left side of the study, taking in the large fireplace set on the wall between the two entry points of the study, and the massive wall of glass-enclosed shelves that were lined with books, pamphlets and letters of all different sorts. Eventually he found himself looking up at the portrait at the back of the room. There was a polished _escritoire_ made out of what looked to be mahogany sitting beneath the portrait, for writing letters perhaps, although it looked like the gentleman used it more to store items on than else. He could see spyglass sitting on the upper part of it, and a couple of pistols, and even—

"Is that a tubular coral?" He asked, taking in the marine specimen with interest. It was small, white and stony looking, different than the pictures in his books at home, but he still recognized it. He heard Washington push his chair back and stand, but the noise didn't even make him turn around this time. "I've never seen one in person before." 

George picked up the coral and examined it for a moment before holding it out to the boy, and his eyes brightened at the offer, carefully taking it into his hands, "Whoa..." 

"I didn't realize you were interested in sea life," the man commented gently. 

John looked up and nodded with a smile, "Only as a hobby. I have a copy of _Historia Fucorum_ and _The Natural History of Barbados_ at home, Sir. Tubular coral grows all over the Caribbean islands though, doesn't it?" He handed it back to the ex-soldier, worried he would damage it by accident. John was so distracted by the coral he completely missed the fact he had used the word _home_.

"I do believe so, yes. I acquired this piece in Barbados myself, actually, during a trip with my brother..." he trailed off and the blond noticed his gaze flicker upwards for a split second.

Ah, so that's who the portrait was of. 

The room fell into a quietness, and John braced himself for what he had to do.

"Sir, I've not been entirely honest with you... I haven't lied, but I did omit important details about myself knowing they would have an impact on my situation." John finally admitted, "My surname is Laurens, Sir, and I believe you are acquainted with my father, Henry." He couldn't look at him for a long time, but after nearly a minute of silence the blond peered up to find Washington setting the coral back down, carefully adjusting its position. "Sir? Did you he—" He realized, and suddenly felt quite stupid. "You already knew who I was, didn't you?" 

George looked at him, his mouth twitching very slightly, "Not at first; but that night when you came down to dinner I did. I still can't believe I did not recognize you on sight." 

They moved towards his desk and each took a seat, "John, before we go any further I want you to know I'm not angry you didn't tell me. I hadn't seen you since you were a young child, I can't fault you for being unwilling to trust after what you had been through. What I would like to know, is how you ended up on that ship, and if your father was the reason you didn't tell anyone you have a family at home to return to?"

"I..." John could feel his throat close up, tears stinging his eyes.

_Because I'm afraid he'll tell me it was my fault, that I deserved it for being abnormal, that I probably enjoyed it anyways so it doesn't really matter. I'm afraid everyone will hate me when they find out and this horrible thing will follow me for the rest of my life. Better they think me dead than turn me away in shame and disgust._

He wanted to tell him, to tell somebody, but he couldn't. If he did, it would lead to more questions and that increased the chances of someone finding out. 

Evidently, Washington saw the anguish in the young boy's face, because he pulled out his chair and had John sit in it, lowering himself into one across from him. "It's alright, son, you can tell me." Deep down the man was fearing the worst; he hadn't known Henry to ever be a violent man... but he could be quite harsh, and his expectations were unrealistic, particularly when it came to his sons John and Harry. 

The blond looked into the man's face and while they did not resemble each other much, he could see Alexander's kindness there. His trustworthiness. "I... I am afraid my father will think I deserved what happened to me, Sir." He finally whispered. 

"...and why do you believe he would think that?" 

_Because I don't want a wife._

John wrung his hands in his lap, "I... I disobeyed him. I was being punished for sneaking out of the house, and as soon as his back was turned I did it again. I was involved in a fight at a protest against the trade of... human commerce..." Washington sat back a little, looking reflective, but John had his head down and didn't see this. "Some officers of the local militia showed up, or so we thought, and began to haul us away for causing trouble... I struggled and was hit over the head. I woke up in the... the cargo hold." His voice broke near the end, "I suppose they weren't officers at all, were they?" When George didn't respond he squeezed his wrist tightly, struggling to force back his tears. "Oh God, they _weren't_ officers. They were disguised as militia so they could take us and no one would think it was suspicious. I... if I hadn't of sneaked out it never would have happened. _None_ of it would've happened. It... it really _is_ all my fault." 

The man stood up when he heard that and found the blond boy covering his mouth, looking horribly pale and struggling not to empty the contents of his stomach. 

"Don't say that, John, look at me," George dropped to one knee in front of the chair he was sitting in, trying to get his attention. "John. What happened to you was not your fault any more than it was Alexander's. Do you think he deserved it because he left home without permission?" John looked up, wide-eyed, and shook his head vehemently. "Exactly. It was not his fault anymore than it was yours. You made a poor choice and were somewhere you shouldn't have been, but that does not mean you were asking to be stolen away from your family, or subjected to that beast's twisted perversion. You are a child, and there will always be adults in positions of power that will seek to exploit that. But it's not your fault, I would never think that and I don't think your father would either." 

John seemed more upset than he was angry, so Washington cautiously drew the boy he'd known since his infancy into his arms, feeling the way he trembled as he tried not to cry. "Your father loves you very much, John. I'm sure he would be overwhelmed with joy to know you are safe now." He brushed the young teenager's hair away from his eyes, and wiped his tears just as he'd done so many times for Jacky, Patsy and Alex. "We really ought to tell him you're okay. But, if for any reason at all you ever feel like you can't be at home, John, I want you to write me, okay? Or come here directly. We'll not breathe a word of your whereabouts to anyone if you truly feel you can't be at home, and we'll never turn you away, understand?" 

Overwhelmed, the teen could do naught but shakily nod his head in response, and cling to Washington for dear life when he was hugged.

* * *

_January, 1771_

In the end, John didn't go home right away. 

He and Mr. Washington did pen a letter to his father in South Carolina, together, explaining (in summary, John couldn't quite handle giving specific details just yet) about what had happened to him, where he'd been the last few months, and how he had been saved. The letter contained plenty of reassurances that the boy was safe at Mount Vernon for the time being and that there was no cause for alarm, that John would be returning home eventually, and despite George's insistence that he had done nothing wrong, a profound apology from the teenager for disobeying his father and getting himself taken in the first place.

Because of how busy Henry Laurens was, John had not expected to hear back right away. 

His father surprised him by not only replying within the week, but also sending through the mail several notes and drawings from his younger siblings that had brought John to tears to see, along with some of his belongings and enough money for him to travel back to South Carolina. 

As much as he wanted to hop on the next available mode of transportation home, John stalled a bit, claiming he needed more time to recover. 

It wasn't a complete lie; he wasn't ready to leave the family he'd bonded with so quickly just yet. He loved Martha's kind and nurturing personality, having lost his mother before he was taken, and George's stern but gentle nature. He liked that Jacky knew how to have fun even though he was a bit lazy and spoiled at times, and how strong yet sweet Patsy was despite her fragile health.

But most of all... Alexander.

His Alex, who seemed to embody the best qualities of his family members, who was passionate and opinionated about everything and anything, who was brazen and fiercely intelligent, generous and bold and so determined not to let anything he'd been through beat him down, who hid his insecurities and fears as best he could because he didn't want to burden his family any further than he felt he already had. 

It was why, a little over three months after their rescue, his heart was breaking when he knew he had to tell the younger boy that it was time for him to leave; the pocket watch that Alexander had presented him with in October felt heavy yet comforting in his pocket. It was a beautiful thing, made of fine English tortoise shell, silver and mahogany, with a collapsible sun dial and compass that fit in the back behind the clock face.

The blond waited long enough to spend Alexander's fourteenth birthday with him.

He'd never forget the look on the other's face when he opened the box and saw what was inside; a thick, brand new edition of the collected works of Alexander Pope, bound in leather with gold gilding on the paper edges, and red, white and blue double hand-sewn end bands on the binding. Inside he had written, _'For my dearest Alexander on his 14th year, with love always, J.L.'_

Although they were often reprimanded for spending more time outside in the gardens or in the cupola at night than sleeping, for once Martha and George did not scold them as they climbed out onto the roof and watched the millions of stars that sparkled above them. They were holding hands; they did that a lot these days. He never wanted that night to end, it was so quiet and peaceful.

"Looks like people have forgotten about the Boston incident already," John scoffed, tossing aside the newspaper he'd brought with him, which was full of the most mundane nonsense he'd ever read. "Five people died including a boy not much older than us, more were horribly injured, and all because a customs employee thought firing a loaded weapon into a crowd was the best way to end a protest." 

Alexander bit his bottom lip, he didn't disagree that what had happened was awful, but... he'd hardly say people had forgotten. There was talk that the outrage sparked over these incidents could escalate into a full blown war. "It wasn't exactly a peaceful protest, John; they threw rocks at his house and shattered his windows; one of them even hit his wife." 

"...and killing an eleven-year-old boy helped _how_ , exactly? Alexander, they treat us like we're trash. We can't say a single word against them, and any attempt to stand up for ourselves is met with wildly disproportionate violence. None of those who died had justice served to them, every single one of those bastards got off with hardly more than a warning!" 

"I'm not saying you're incorrect, but as much as we may have disliked the result, everyone is entitled to a fair trial, are they not?" He asked, and John didn't answer. "The people found that they were not as guilty as we initially believed. It's tragic, truly, that people died... but perhaps if men weren't so inclined towards mob mentality nonsense, it never would have escalated that far. Think about it," he suggested cautiously, "Our fellow countrymen dislike laws that the King and the British parliament created, so they attack those who are sent to enforce those laws, rather than direct their anger at the ones giving the orders? Assaulting soldiers with bottles, ice, clubs and oyster shells while screaming at them to fire if they dared... can you blame them for eventually fighting back, whether they were ordered to or not, truly?"

John shook his head, "Those who uphold unjust laws are just as guilty as the ones who created it." he insisted stubbornly 

"Well, I think that lawyer, John Adams, was right." 

The blond glanced over at him, "What did he say?" 

His friend closed his eyes, _''It is more important that innocence be protected than it is that guilt be punished, for guilt and crimes are so frequent in this world that they cannot all be punished. But if innocence itself is brought to the bar and condemned, perhaps to die, then the citizen will say, 'whether I do good or whether I do evil is immaterial, for innocence itself is no protection,' and if such an idea as that were to take hold in the mind of the citizen that would be the end of security whatsoever."_ he quoted from memory, something that had quickly stopped surprising the other. "John, if we start demanding that every person accused of a crime must prove themselves innocent, instead of the accuser proving them guilty, then so many people will suffer for others' selfish whims. If a husband accuses his wife of adultery and his word is all that is required, and she cannot irrefutably prove that she wasn't unfaithful, she would be punished for that regardless of a lack of evidence that she was guilty. Men could use our own justice system to imprison wives they've grown bored of or no longer wish to support. A poor person could accuse a wealthy man of robbing him and people would take him at his word alone simply because the poor elicit more sympathy than the well-off. I think the law is unfair enough already as it is, don't you?"

"...You know, sometimes I hate that brilliant mind of yours." John conceded with a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his hair. 

They fell back into a comfortable silence. 

Suddenly, Alexander said, "I'm really going to miss this."

It didn't startle John that he'd figured it out, he'd known for months now that the other boy was much smarter than he had ever realized in the beginning, but for some reason he still asked, "How long have you known?"

A sort of half sad smile, half smug smirk graced Alexander's features, "I didn't for sure, until just now when you confirmed it." he confessed. 

_That little—_

"If I didn't love you so much I'd push you off this roof and run, just so you know." 

He laughed, and John thought he would miss the sound of that most of all, "You love me?" 

_Oh_. 

"Well, obviously. We're best friends, aren't we?" 

Alexander hummed in agreement and leaned in closer, and John caught the scent of his hair; the rich Earthy fragrance of patchouli, and sweet jasmine blossoms, bergamot and sea salt mixed with the ever-present musk of old books and the ink like that which stained his fingertips, the spicy notes of Chai as if he bathed in it rather than drank it. He hadn't noticed until that moment just how much that scent soothed him. "Indeed we are, and I love you as well, my dear Laurens, very much. In fact, I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart to set upon you 'til faced with the realization you would be leaving me."

His breath caught upon hearing that, and he swallowed, "We will see each other again, and I'll write you every day." he promised, clutching his hand tighter.

"It won't be the same." The other boy said softly, and the longing, sorrowful tone of his voice almost made him want to go and unpack his belongings. Almost. But he couldn't put this off any longer, his siblings needed him, and he missed his home terribly. "When are you leaving?" 

The reply felt thick on his tongue, like the words were stuck and didn't want to come out, "Tomorrow night..." 

"I see." Alexander tilted his head skywards and seemed to come to some sort of decision, but he was afraid to ask. "Then I suppose there's not much time left for this..." 

"Not much time for what—"

John couldn't get the question out completely before the redhead turned and, without neither hesitation nor warning, pressed his lips against the elder's. 

Turquoise eyes flew open in shock, and he made to pull away, terrified somebody would see, but instead found himself leaning into it, his hand on Alexander's cheek as he returned the kiss, gently winding his fingers into the other's auburn hair while his opposite hand was still tangled with Alexander's. A dozen emotions rushed through him like a wave crashing against a rocky cliff base, but his heart was _soaring_.

By the time they broke apart, Alexander's cheeks were flushed red, as were his own, and he could only stare at the younger boy in dazed silence. "Do not forget me, John. One day, when we're both grown and off by ourselves, we'll meet again, I just know it. You'll come back for me, won't you? When the time comes?"

He touched their foreheads together, "Always. I'll always come back to you, Alex."

"Good." Alexander murmured, and intertwined their fingers before laying back against the roof of the manor, looking up at the celestial objects decorating the night sky once more. He copied him, and they spent the rest of the night watching the stars together.

* * *

Two days later, John Laurens was on his way back to South Carolina. 

Almost immediately after he left, Alexander began experiencing the dreams again, premonitions really as he was starting to see them as. He dreamed of storms at sea ripping apart boats and the next morning heard news that a ship had sank off the coast, he dreamed about his parents crying and praying over Patsy and that same night she had a fit so terrible she fell out of her bed and nearly cracked her skull, prompting them to seek out more and more unconventional medical treatments that seemed to make her worse rather than better.

Every night, he saw the woman who called to him, the one with his eyes. 

Before a month had passed he finally told his father about it. 

George looked so pale when he described these visions he'd been having in his sleep since childhood, he thought he would pass out; his father told him he was not to step foot near any body of water unless it was an emergency.

The avoidance didn't help. 

If anything, the ache in his chest grew worse and worse, and the heat from the lit fireplaces in their home made him feel like he was burning up on the inside. 

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. 

Alexander knew that avoiding thinking about it wouldn't make the problem go away, he needed to actually do something about it. 

So he wrote a letter to his family, several actually, one for each of them, these ones were much more well thought out and deliberate than the emotional nonsense he had penned when he'd foolishly run away to Doctor Arason. This time he made his intentions clear, and promised him that he would return, which was something he fully intended. It wasn't a decision he made lightly, leaving behind everything he had ever known, but without John there to seemingly keep the dreams at bay, he was haunted by them on a nightly basis, and he needed to know why.

It was funny how a single year could change you so much. 

One day you're having dinner with your family, and the next... well. He was going to miss that, but he needed answers, ones that couldn't be found with his father, nor in Virginia. There was only one person he could ask, and that was the woman who had given him up fourteen years ago.

Alex stood with a somber sort of acceptance on the bow of the ship as he watched his home disappear on the horizon, heading for the West Indies. 

_I'm coming, Mother, and soon you can tell me all you wish to in person._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes about things throughout the chapter: 
> 
> \- The Washingtons didn't have their private staircase of George's study constructed until the late 70s or so, according to the Mount Vernon website. Because I couldn't find a lot of information about exactly what the house looked like prior to 1770, and it's easier just to use their website overall as a reference for how the house may have looked, I'm just waving this off as 'it's an AU fiction story so we can say they redesigned/constructed the mansion sooner than in real life' which I think I touched on a bit during the chapters when Alexander was sick, but I'm reiterating it here for any history nerds who might wonder why rooms appear in this story that weren't actually constructed until later.
> 
> \- No one actually tried to hurt Alexander while he was running his errand. Since he's suffering from symptoms of PTSD (or "trauma", whatever they may have called it back then), some of his symptoms will present as classic - anxiety, paranoia, flashbacks, exaggerated startle reflex, hypervigilance, etc. The unexpected touch from an older gentleman scared him and he had a flashback to his assault, which is what caused his panic attack.
> 
> \- Henry Laurens was definitely kind of a bastard and most people can agree that his style of parenting definitely left a lasting negative impact on his children; however he did love them, without a doubt, and I think that no matter how angry a father was that his child ran off and disrespected him, he would still grieve his disappearance and be relieved and elated to hear they were okay; and since, like the real GW and everyone else in this story, has been dead for hundreds of years, we can't know exactly what his real personality was like, so I'm taking creative liberties and painting him in a more caring light.
> 
> \- Yes, the line you're thinking of IS a paraphrasing of Alexander's infamous letter to John Laurens.
> 
> Next chapter, Alexander gaining some real life experience before meeting several important people in his life (am I talking about his mother? Lafayette? Hercules? All of them, none of them? Who knows! I'm more or less making this up as I go) and the Revolutionary War reaches its beginning stages...
> 
> French-English Translation: 
> 
> Je ñ'en vouloir pas! = I don't want it!  
> Arrêtez! = Stop!  
> Oh Dieu, s'il te plait, ne le fais pas = Oh God, please, don't  
> S'il vous plaît arrêtez = Please stop


	16. Searching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That night, he awoke drenched in sweat. He could feel his heart pounding so severely that he thought it was going to come right out of his chest.
> 
> Alexander had glimpsed her in his dreams again, if only briefly; the raven-haired woman that had his eyes and smile. 
> 
> His mother. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat short chapter I finished up just now; the very next one will include Alexander meeting his mother (hopefully lol) and learning some things about what he is, visiting a couple of loved ones under the radar after leaving the islands and beginning to attend college before the war begins.
> 
> The journey of Alexander has only just begun!

_February, 1771_

Alexander thought being on a ship in open waters would be terrifying to him after his experience with nearly drowning as a child.

But he wasn't afraid at all; instead, he felt more _right_ than he had his whole life. 

In the mornings he woke up and assisted the crew of the ship in any way he could, socialized with the other passengers, never giving his surname away. After all, he had only ever been outside of the Colony of Virginia once or twice his entire life, and of the handfuls of guests that had come and gone on Mount Vernon only a few had ever actually suspected that he was a sordid secret of his father; if he went around calling himself a Washington, it would cause talk, and he didn't want to do anything that would reflect poorly on his family. 

Even if he was in the eyes of the law a foundling, he still had to protect his parents and not sully their names in any way. 

Often times he sat on the upper deck and just wrote down the observations he made about the sea, the patterns of the clouds, the weather, the sounds... there was something undeniably soothing about it all.

Day after day he walked out to stand on the forepart of the ship, leaning over the railing with his head angled towards the salty spray of seawater, the cool wind whipping through his hair and the sounds of marine life below and the birds above as he viewed the sun setting on the horizon. The sky was burning with the shades of pink, yellow, red and orange, while waves themselves seemed to almost glow purple in the colors of twilight. He knew he had made the right decision, no matter how much it hurt himself and those he loved.

He knew he would see them all again one day. 

* * *

_Dearest **P ~~ **apa**~~** Father,_

_By the time you are reading this I have little doubt you will have already discovered my absence;_

_Please let me preface my words by ~~ **saying**~~ offering my sincerest apologies for the grief and worry I know you must be feeling on my behalf, as well as the anger for disobeying you once again, but I beg of you to consider my position and understand that this was something that I needed to do, for reasons I will explain shortly. Do not express or impart your discountenance upon my siblings Jacky or Patsy, or upon John, or even Sophia, I promise that none of them were privy to the plans that I've had ruminating in the back of my mind as early as December. This isn't anyone's fault but my own._

_On to the explanation, I suppose._

_For as long as I can recall, I never quite felt right with myself. This is not a reflection on my fondness for you, Sir, or for my precious family. This sense of estrangement with my surroundings has always existed as far back as I am able to recall. Even before I learned of the circumstances under which you found me, I was always... out of place, alienated even in a room full of other people. There was a feeling like I didn't belong there; I'm not referring to Mount Vernon or even Virginia, but rather an abstract sensation that I just didn't fit in among my peers, perhaps my eccentricity is to blame. I'm afraid there's neither the time nor words to fully and properly explain my mindset for this decision; I hope that you can realize yourself what I mean. You always were good at understanding ~~me~~ other people. _

_~~My life was like a jigsaw puzzle in which one of the pieces don't fit in the space you've tried to place it; you can attempt to force it, certainly, but looking closely still reveals the truth that the piece is not where it should be. That's... probably a poor analogy.~~ _ _~~Think of it like an ill-fitting uniform that everyone says looks perfectly complimentary on you, but gazing at yourself in the mirror all you can see are the flaws, the shirt sleeves that are too long, the coat is stiff and uncomfortable...~~ _

_I'm so sorry, I've been up all night ~~ **sick to my stomach at the thought of leaving**~~ packing and trying to write this, but I still seem to be having trouble eloquently expressing my thoughts, ironic considering my obsession with language isn't it? I know you never enjoyed the art of penmanship and some days I can see why, so allow me to toss formality out the window for a moment in favor of frank honesty._

_I love my home, and my family, I love the sun and the crisp air and watching the flowers and trees grow and change with the passing of the seasons, I love spending Christmas with you and eating hoecakes and attending church with the family ~~even though the idea of divine Providence truly baffles me~~. I will miss the way ~~**Mamma**~~ Mother kissed me on the forehead each night before I went to sleep because she doesn't believe in not telling someone you love them at the end of each day just in case it's the last chance you are able to do so, and I will miss spending time in your study and listening to you tell me stories about your life and the lessons you learned. I love the fact that you granted me access to a private tutor when boarding school was too overwhelming following ~~**the incident with Chambers**~~ our difficulties in this last year. You really didn't need to do that, but I appreciate it greatly, I know how much value you put on a proper education after being denied one yourself in your youth._

_~~**Papa**~~ Sir, I don't want you to be angry at me, but I would much prefer that ~~then~~ than you taking any responsibility for my own choices onto your already greatly burdened shoulders. I know I am young, and I have made foolish choices, but I've also learned from those mistakes and do not intend to make them again. I'm going to find answers to the questions we have both been asking ourselves for years, I ~~need to know what I am~~ and when I find the woman who gave birth to me, I will return to the Colonies ~~and your side where I belong~~ once more. You have given me more than I could ever have hoped for, and more than I would have had any right to, and as much as I would have liked for you to join me on this journey **~~I~~ ~~t would be selfish to ask something I knew you would agree to without hesitation because of how much you care about me~~** , this is something that I need to do on my own, I hope one day you can understand._

_Please, do not come looking for me._

_I will never be able to fully express the depths of my gratitude for all you've done for me; you took in an abandoned baby with no one and raised him as your son despite no absolute guarantee that he was such, you provided him with a family and so much love and any time he was scared or hurting you healed the cracks in his broken heart so he wouldn't have to do it himself. I will cherish these memories for as long as there is life inside of me. I can't say with any degree of certainty that I know where I'll end up, but I ~~can say~~ do know that wherever that might be, when I've found what I'm looking for, I'll leave one day and come home to you. You have my word, honor, and very life on this promise._

_One more thing before I retire my quill, I know I've no right to ask anything of you, but I have a request if you would be so kind as to receive it._

_If you never again acquiesce to anything I ask of you but once, let this be it:_

_Please, don't lock yourself in your study in despair for what I have done ~~Mamma and the demons you insist I call my siblings will still need your love and guidance~~ , I promise I will be safe and responsible ~~as my temperament will allow me to be~~ and hopefully upon my return we can both be secure and proud of the man that I will have become. _ _**~~Please don't hate me, I never imagined I would have to leave like this~~**. _ _I love you so very much._

_Until we meet again,_

_Your dutiful and affectionate son,  
Alexander ~~**Washington?**~~_

* * *

_June, 1771_

The first place he had ventured to upon arriving in Caribbean waters, was the British islands of Saint Christopher (aka St. Kitts) and Nevis.

As far as he had been able to tell from his father's journals, that was where he had been conceived, and no, he did not _ever_ want to think about that again as long as he should live. Thank the ever-merciful Lord that his father was not an elegant or descriptive writer, or he would be admitting himself into the nearest facility capable of inducing electric currents through his body until his mind was sufficiently damaged enough to forget such details. 

Unfortunately, he learned rather quickly that aside from the occasional destruction of ships just off of their coast, the locals did not believe very strongly in any such female water spirits as his father's writings had referred to; the closest things they had in their folklore were West African spirits who mimicked beautiful women and ones that supposedly ate children. He was disappointed, but came to the conclusion that it was mere coincidence his father had wound up here. If his mother was truly a benevolent sort of water deity, and had saved him for purposes beyond the lascivious, than she had likely only brought him to these islands because they were the closest land available. So, it was unlikely that she resided here; but he wasn't keen to give up so quickly.

Once he'd gathered any information he could, he set his eyes on a different island, as a superstitious French gentleman of St. Kitts told him that the people of the Danish island of St. Croix were apparently deeply intertwined with marine folk tales and he was more likely to garner some answers there, so that's where he headed. 

Alexander came upon the _exact opposite_ problem there. 

Unlike the other islands, there was no shortage of people who believed what he told him - that his mother may have been a creature of the sea - but rather far _too many_ people believed. He spoke with dozens who thought that they were themselves demigod children of various water Gods and Goddesses of assorted lore, people who believed mermen seduced their wives and sea witches stole their children to keep themselves young and beautiful; some of them sadly just seemed to be in denial about the misfortunes of their own lives and were looking for alternate possibilities for why bad things happened.

It would take him a while to sort out the insane and the grieving from those who actually knew what they were talking about. 

His luck began to turn a couple weeks after arrival when he managed to secure a job with a local trading charter, just as his funds were beginning to dwindle. Clerking was not an elegant or particularly dignified profession for someone who had grown up relatively sheltered on an esteemed plantation estate. It didn't help that the exporters in question dealt with the slave trade a couple of times a year - and oh, how he _loathed_ having anything to do with the barbaric trade of human beings and mistreated animals - but it was something he knew he would be able to do, and could be paid for, so he held his tongue (in the beginning) and did it without complaint.

At first, Mr. Nicholas Cruger had nearly laughed at his request for a job, considering he was fourteen years old, had no prior references or connections on the island and was all of 5'4", but apparently he was generous enough to give him a day or two to impress him, no doubt thinking he would turn and run home with his tail between his legs after a few mere hours working in an _agonizingly_ boring and time consuming position in a warehouse. 

By the end of the week, he was no longer laughing.

Instead, the young businessman was left staring at the boy as he flipped through multiple prerecorded notebooks related to his company, Beekman and Cruger, reading with one hand skittering down page after page, his eyes darting rapidly as he absorbed the words, while the other wrote down everything he felt needed to be improved, his mouth going a mile a minute. 

Alexander took to his first job like a bumblebee did to an unpollinated flower.

He spent the first week learning how to count and convert money, which was simple enough since math came to him easily and he'd been watching his father manage his own estate for years. Soon enough he could handle transactions involving British pounds, Portuguese edcudo, Spanish peso, Danish ducats, Dutch stivers, Milanese scudo, French livres, Chinese wén, and eventually Japanese mon. This allowed him to keep track of cargoes and prices, balance the finances and manage the currencies for their clients. By the end of the first month he had begun charting the best nautical courses for ships to take to and from the island based on weather pattern prediction. 

After three months time he had written them up a new accounting system, rearranged the warehouse to be more space efficient and lectured almost every one of Crugers' suppliers, ship Captains and laborers at one point or another, mostly because of their _incompetence,_ but also due to how poorly they treated the stock he was supposed to receive, be it timber, animal and human (ugh) livestock, flour, food or other important assets.

How was letting a whole ship of donkeys wither away to nearly nothing in their own misery good for business? He impressed his employer so thoroughly he was even placed in charge for a considerable amount of time when the man had to travel to New York City. 

The feeling of being in charge of something and doing it well was unlike any other, and he was almost disappointed when Mr. Cruger returned. 

If only his father were here to see him, he would be—

 _What would he be, Alexander? Proud? You truly think he would be **proud** that you abandoned your family **again** after all the stress you've _ _put them through already, not to mention given up your_ _comfortable home and your studies, all so you could become a glorified secretary for a rather shady chartering company on an island in the middle of nowhere? Yes, I'm sure he'd be **quite** pleased over you sleeping in a hostel frequented mainly by malefactors and fugitives who would either rob, rape, kill or capture __you if you turned your back on them for a single second. Get a grip; if he saw what you were doing it would send him into a bloody fit and you know it._

Sighing, the young boy locked up the warehouse and made his way down onto the sandy beach, collecting bits of glass and abandoned rocks and shells that he thought looked interesting, things he could send back to his family. He had already managed to find broken pieces of pretty seashell to fashion a cameo brooch for Mamma, a piece of _Scolymia lacera_ coral for his father, who had lamented to him once when he was seven about not acquiring a piece to add alongside his specimen from the Bahamas on his last trip, he also managed to collect some loose pearls of varying color and quality to make a bracelet for Patsy...

He was so lost in his own thoughts he nearly tripped over a rather large Lobatus Gigas (Queen Conch) shell that looked like it had been recently deserted by its inhabitant. He double checked inside to make sure, and there was no creature to be found within. It was a beautiful color, bright pink and gold and creamy white. He rinsed it and put it in his trunk so he could send it to South Carolina for John, who had an interest in marine life, before he moved to London as he explained in his last letter his father was considering doing, for the sake of their education. 

Now all he had to do was find something for Jacky, but what would he like? 

He couldn't very well pack up a woman with an impressively large bosom and send her off to his step-brother as a gift, though he had no doubt that would be what the other appreciated most of all. 

Perhaps he could check out the local merchants and see if anything caught his eye. 

* * *

That night, he awoke drenched in sweat. He could feel his heart pounding so severely that he thought it was going to come right out of his chest.

Alexander had glimpsed her in his dreams again, if only briefly; the raven-haired woman that had his eyes and smile. 

His mother. 

She hadn't been singing to him this time, though, but standing in the surf while he stood on the beach, her arms stretched towards him, her face a mask of pain and fear. _Why,_ her violet eyes seemed to ask him, _why did you come here? You don't belong here, Alexander, go home_. 

But he couldn't, not until he met her, for real. 

These dreams weren't _good enough!_

Not to him, at least.

He wanted to see her for himself, to hear her voice as more than just a melancholy echo of a memory he may or may not even have hallucinated when he was a sick child, to hold her and ask her... why had she given him up? Why she had bothered to _have_ him at all? What _was_ he, and why was there a void inside of him that wouldn't go away no matter how much he buried himself in anything that would distract him from his relentless questions? 

Damn it, all he wanted was some _peace!_

Something told him that unless he managed to see her with his own two eyes, he would never get an answer, he would never be satisfied. But how, what could he possibly do to bring to him a woman he hadn't known since infancy? It wasn't as if she'd sent him a letter with her address on it!

Wait a minute... 

No, it was stupid and dangerous and... possibly just _insane_ enough that it could work.

The one and only time he had ever seen clear visions of her in his dreams (they had to be dreams, he couldn't believe otherwise without proof) was either when he was at the risk of death _(she visited you when you were ill, she lured you to the water before you could die to try and save you)_ or after something terrible had happened to him _( **don't think about Chambers, don't**)_ because she... cared about him? She was worried and felt the need to check upon him? He could only speculate, but the fact that those dreams were the clearest ones to stand out, and were both preceding or following something horrible happening in his life, could not be a coincidence, right?

So that's what he would do then... 

He had to put himself into some sort of situation that she felt obligated to check on him, that would surely draw her to his location. Maybe then he could finally learn the truth about his origins.

With a pleased smile on his face as he contemplated this new plan of is, Alexander fell back into a now peaceful sleep. 

Soon, he would see her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you are wondering about Alexander's letter; the strikethrough simply represents places where he crossed out words and didn't have time to write down a more refined version for George, and the lines that are strikethrough'd AND bolded are ones where he's scratched over it multiple times, to the point where it would look barely legibly on paper (sort of like in real life when you erase and rewrite something so many times you start nearly tearing the paper, you know?).
> 
> Remember he's still only just turned fourteen; he's a genius but he still has the emotions of a child so he hesitates, second guesses himself, makes spelling mistakes, etc. He's trying to seem more mature than he actually is (crossing out 'Papa' in favor of 'Father' so he doesn't seem childish, not including his last name because he doesn't want to presume George would be okay with him using it after what he's done, etc) so his family won't worry as much, hence all the times he crossed something out when he second guessed what he wrote.
> 
> Also nope, you don't get to see how Washington took Alexander leaving until the next chapter when the war is full on! Sorry, I'm mean like that.


	17. Still Waters Run Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So thirsty for knowledge... I promise you one day you will know the truth about everything, please try to be patient until then."
> 
> Patience was never his strong suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a short but semi-graphic flashback/panic attack regarding sexual assault near the beginning, and general storm-related PTSD too.

_July, 1771_

This had to be one of _the_ most stupid things he had ever done.

Alexander tightened his grip on the mast, his eyes wide and his heart pounding fiercely in his chest with each rocking wave that sent the boat lurching through the choppy sea water. He heard the thunderous sound that accompanied lightning cracking in the distance and his limbs seized up in terror as the crew ran about the decks, readjusting the sails that threatened to shred if the winds grew anymore violent, and yelling out instructions to one another. There was something on the horizon, and... Oh, no.

_No, no, no, no, no!_

The fourteen year old clung on for dear life, wondering how his plan had gone so horribly awry. 

He had paid to accompany a group of fishermen out on their boat for an afternoon, despite warnings from the Captain that they were anticipating a rough storm coming. In his mind, that had been all the better; perhaps if he was sufficiently scared, his mother would sense his distress and come to him? He had thought, in the beginning that it was sure to be efficient. 

One problem, however, that 'storm' they had been warned about was, in fact, the eyewall of a _fucking hurricane!_

It was raining so hard he could barely breathe without inhaling mouthfuls of water, the powerful winds kept pulling at them, their clothes, nearly yanking the men off their feet as they struggled to turn the boat around and get back on land, where they would at least stand a fraction of a chance. The waves were over thirty feet high and it felt like the sky had opened up into a torrential downpour. 

As another wave slammed into them, Alexander felt his hands rip away from the post and send him flying into the side of the boat, eliciting a cry of pain that was inaudible over the sound of the wind. Nearby, a crew member was actually laughing as the ferocity of the storm threatened to knock him overboard. _He's absolutely mad!_ The young teenager thought, astonished that the men could be so utterly indifferent to the thought of their own demise.

This was a horrid idea, what was he _thinking?_

"C'mon, lad, this is no place for a boy during a storm." Alexander heard the familiar voice of the Captain, a Scotch man in his late thirties, address him from behind before a strong hand gripped his arm in order to pull him to his feet. He normally _would_ bristled at being referred to in such a way if he wasn't too busy flinching at the unexpected touch, gripping onto the edge of the ship nervously as he tried to put distance between him and the male. "Let's get ya somewhere dry down below, what do ya say?"

He was suddenly, and unpleasantly, reminded of the _last time_ that someone had forced him into the cabin of a boat, and his heart started pounding wildly. "No, no, that's okay, I'm f-fine right here, Sir!" Where was his balisong knife? Had he left it below in his trunk? 

"Son, don't be foolish, you'll catch your death up here." The man argued, and his grip on the wall of the ship failed as he was tugged backwards, and Alexander felt fear begin to creep into his senses.

He began to struggle in earnest, his panic growing tenfold when one of the shipmates caught his leg as he kicked out and he was lifted off the ground and they began hauling him towards the hatch in the floor. "No, stop it! Let go of me!" Darkness engulfed his vision, the torches having been extinguished by the water that had leaked through. Were they going to lock him up down here? He would be helpless, he could drown if he became trapped. They were going to leave him in the dark and if he died no one would ever know what had happened to him—

Suddenly, Alexander felt himself being lowered onto a bed. 

_Oh God._

"N-No, please don't!" He begged, feeling his throat close up and his body begin to freeze with fear. 

Vaguely, the boy was aware of someone speaking to him, telling him to calm down, he thought, but he couldn't... Alexander was absolutely petrified. 

There were arms wrapping around him and he shut his eyes tightly, nearly sobbing in terror, waiting for the nightmare to repeat itself. _There were unwanted hands tearing at his clothing as he begged and struggled, exhausting himself in a futile effort to escape. The cruel man laughed and sneered at his frightened pleas, pinning him against the table as he forcibly pried his legs open, touching everything between them while he cried out. Tears of shame were rolling down his cheeks as he braced himself for the inevitable pain, and the humiliating violation—_

But that didn't happen. 

Instead, his mind slowly began to register the sensation of a hand on the back of his head... fingers running through his hair... petting him while murmuring soothingly.

"Shhh... it's alright, _Mo Phrionnsa Beag_ ," A man rumbled in a language that Alexander didn't understand. Was that Irish? Scottish?

Suddenly, a wave of calm washed over him and he felt the fright melt away into something else, the tightness in his chest loosening. "That's it, little one, ain't nobody gonna lay a finger on ya again so long as I'm around." He lifted his head and found the bushy-bearded redhead looking down at him with a gentle sympathy in his glowing sea green eyes. 

_Wait a minute...! Glowing?!_

"C-Captain Frederick?" he stammered, tears rolling down his face still even as his heart began to slow to an acceptable rhythm. "Y... your eyes...!"

The man smiled at him in response, "Aye, lad."

Alexander hiccuped and tried to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy; the man laid a hand over his forehead and his eyes slipped shut involuntarily; something about him was sucking away every ounce of anxiety the boy was feeling, replaced by calmness and a desire to sleep. "What... what happened? The storm... I don't hear it anymore..."

"You don't need to worry about that anymore, _Prionns Alasdair_ , the water can't harm you." 

Captain Frederick was making no sense, to the point where Alex had to wonder if he'd hit his head and was now hallucinating, but even he had to snort derisively at that last remark. "Right." 

There was a pause, followed by a throaty chuckle, "Fair point. Allow me to correct myself; the water can't harm you _anymore_. You've grown since the incident on the river, dear boy, you've become stronger... But you were very foolish to attempt to meet your mother this way; you can't just throw yourself into danger because you seek her attention." His eyes sprang open in shock.

How in the hell did he know about _that?_

Before he could open his mouth to demand answers from the man, Frederick began to murmur something in that low and soothing voice of his. He thought he could hear the sound of dolphins outside, and a feeling of serenity washed over him.

Alexander's body went limp, his vision darkening. 

The last thing he remembered before his consciousness slipped away was a warm blanket being pulled up around him, a comforting hand petting his hair.

* * *

Later on boy woke up inside of a giant seashell.

Well, to be more precise, it was a scallop, and although he had seen many different varieties during secret trips he'd taken out to the water behind his parents' back, he had never seen one quite like this. It was about as big as he was in length, and in width it was about a foot longer, a pale creamy color on the inside and a mottled gray-purple-blue on the outside. 

Alexander was exhausted when he noticed this, and could only manage to remark to himself inwardly how odd it was to be resting within a scallop shell, and surely the creature who called it home would be displeased if he discovered a human occupying his home, before sleep unwillingly pulled him back under once more, into even more strange musings. 

Coming around slowly a second time after several more hours had passed, Alexander parted his eyelashes and found himself gazing up at the craggy opening on the ceiling, sunlight spilling onto his face and the sparkling cradle-like bed he had apparently been laid upon, he was wrapped in something cool to the touch but indescribably soft, a pearly white and almost silky fabric that seemed to glow in the dawn. He was also completely dry. Baffled, the fourteen-year-old pushed the blanket off and stood, the rocky sensation against his curiously bare feet only confirming that he was in fact in some sort of cave. 

Rubbing his eyes, he looked around and the boy nearly gasped in shock when he took in his surroundings. 

Woven sea grass hung from the walls in intricate braids, pieces of colorful seashells, moss and coral jutting out of the walls, the ceiling was covered in pearls the size of carriages that glowed in the sunlight, and a thousand other breathtakingly beautiful things which he didn't know the names of surrounded him. A dozen feet away, the cave floor broke off into a trench of water which most likely connected to the sea. At the edge of it there was a... creature. 

Honestly, at first glance it looked like an incredibly majestic horse; it had a beautiful silver body with a long golden mane decorated with lotus blossoms, and clear blue eyes. From the waist down, its body was that of a fish, bearing a long and scaly tail with a matching glistening silver hue as its upper half, ended by opalescent rainbow fins that were so enchanting it almost hurt to look at. 

He didn't know whether to be terrified or amazed. 

Apparently not learning his lesson about dangerous situations in his fourteen years of adolescent stupidity, Alexander inched forward, hesitating visibly as he moved towards the creature, who simply stretched out its long front (or rather, only) legs, dipping its tail back into the water and taking a _giant bite_ out of one of the corals growing from the floor of the cavern, causing him to freeze, his hand half-stretched out to give it a pat but now wondering if it would cost him a limb. 

"You don't have to be afraid of Arketá. She wouldn't hurt a fly." He would have jumped at the sound of the voice, but he'd had a feeling he wasn't alone from the moment he'd woken up.

"I think the coral she devoured would beg to differ..." Alexander remarked dryly, before slowly turning to face the woman. "...Mother."

She looked so much like he remembered from his dreams; deep black hair worn down her back, but this time gathered at the nape of her neck with a sea star holding it all in place, as though it were a buckle or ribbon of some sort. She was wearing a fine, thin silk dress that would have been inappropriate had she been anyone else, and if he had not already been accustomed to her apparent disdain for contemporary clothing. 

"Αλέξανδρος," she murmured back, her expression almost cautious, as if not quite sure of what to make of the fact that he was here. "Ο γιος μου."

 _Don't call me that_. Alexander wanted to insist. _Who are you to me? I don't even know your name!_

The woman's gaze softened, and her eyes shifted to the roof of the cavern, shafts of sunlight highlighting the darkness of her raven hair. "You are angry with me." 

"What on Earth would give you that idea?" 

Her arm stretched out towards him, "I cannot ask you to forgive me for my choices, Alexander, I can only ask that you listen to my reasons. You're old enough now that you might understand, you want answers, yes?" 

Staring at the offered hand, Alex lifted his gaze to meet her lapis eyes, and took a deep breath. 

Nodding, he stepped forward and placed his hand in her own, and they were engulfed by light.

* * *

_ “Ο θησαυρός μου στη θάλασσα,  
Αγάπη μου, έλα οίκος σε μένα...  
Ακου την καρδιά σου,  
Τραγουδήστε το τραγούδι του η θάλασσα...” _

_ “Νιώστε τον άνεμο και το νερό, τόσο δωρεάν,  
Μια σιωπηρή μελωδία τηςέκσταση  
Βυθιστείτε στη χαρά και στον πόνο,  
στις δυνάμεις της βροντής και της βροχής.” _

* * *

In the end, he spent several months visiting his mother. 

They spoke about everything and anything he could think to ask about, although she was not always forthcoming about her answers. He twisted and bargained her words, finding loopholes to get the response he wished from her; sometimes she humored him, other times not so much... Questions like 'Why can't I see you every day?' and 'Do you have a family? Can I see your home?' were avoided, among others. They slept in the cave, which she'd confirmed was a temporary residence, and strangely, he didn't mind this, not even when the sounds of thunder and lightning could be heard on the water from miles away. 

Each time they parted ways, he found himself feeling less and less resentful towards the woman who had birthed him, and more frightened and saddened by the situation she had found herself in; it was clear to him by her body language and her words that she cared for him, and whatever her reasons may have been for not having raised him herself, she was unhappy about them.

Because, really, if she truly didn't love him then why keep track of where he was and what he was doing all these years?

"So thirsty for knowledge... I promise you one day you will know the truth about everything, please try to be patient until then."

Patience was never his strong suit.

As it turned out, there was no word for what she was that translated perfectly into any human language, which was why so many cultures had coined their own terms for it. According to her, 'Nymph' was close, but did not quite fit their true nature of existence. Sea spirits was probably more accurate. 

His first instinct had been to ask her to come home with him; he had so much he wanted to know! 

Even before the sad smile touched her lips, Alexander realized it was not a feasible request; if his mother could have been with him all this time so easily, she would have, he understood that now. When asked why she spoke in Greek to him in his dreams and why he could understand it, she'd told him that because Greek was the oldest recorded language, and that it was the 'default' her kind chose to use when communicating with humans, since they all knew it from antiquity (that had only raised further questions, such as how old she was); as for why he could understand her, that seemed to puzzle her as well. Eventually, she had confessed that all 'offspring of the sea' had certain gifts that they always inherited from their parents, and ones that were solely unique to themselves.

She'd agreed to show him some of these gifts, enough so he could practice it on his own, but warned him to be careful; he may have been using his powers unknowingly since he was a childhood, but that didn't mean he knew how to do so responsibly yet. The 'offensive' gifts, Ray or Rachel as she said her name was in English, were not meant for him yet, which he didn't understand. The only clue he was given in that regard was that someone he had not yet met would teach him what he needed to know, when the time was right.

She'd shown him other things though, benevolent gifts of communicating with the sea, taming rough weather... and _healing_ , which had been more or less disastrous, if he was being honest (he _did not_ mean to turn that injured porpoise into an eel, he hadn't even realized he could do that). Apparently, healing himself came naturally; if he touched the water, he could recover from most wounds, but trying to heal other beings was more complicated.

What had interested him most were the dreams; why did he see things before they happened, and why were they almost always terrible? Loved ones dying, the world ravaged by war using horrible mechanical abominations, sickness killing immeasurable people... it haunted his dreams on a near nightly basis. 

"Oh, my treasure, some people are burdened with the gift of Sight... I had hoped you would not be one of them... knowing what the future holds before you are meant to can only ever have terrible consequences. I wish I could protect you from what is to come... maybe this will help." She leaned forward and clasped [something](https://i.imgur.com/nbOna2F.png) around his neck, and he'd leaned down to see a platinum, Celtic knot pendant, set in the center of it and gripped by three small prongs was a crystal in the shape of a reverse tear drop. It was extremely peculiar, iridescent in a way he'd never seen before in other minerals, and it had hues of green, gray, black, gold and silver, and as the sunlight hit it, he swore it looked like there was a bolt of lightning flashing with it's dark cloudy luster. He touched the pendant and felt a jolt of _something_ , flipping it over, he found symbols he did not recognize carved into the back of the pendant. 

He gave his mother a questioning look and she took his face in her hands, kissing the top of his head. 

"You have a journey ahead of you, my brave one. Είθε οι θεοί να σε κοιτάξουν με χάρη και εύνοια, Αλέξανδρος."

The boy wasn't sure whether he believed in one God, let alone multiple, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless; especially when the more she told him, the greater his apprehension was. "Thank you, Mother." 

Sitting back, she looked a him with an emotion he couldn't quite name shining in her eyes, brushing a lock of unruly auburn hair from his face, "Have you decided what you're going to do next?" 

Well, that was the winning question, wasn't it? 

"I—"

That was when it happened; just like in his dreams he was sucked away from the present into the middle of a scene in which he was a spectator, and never a participant; the fact that this was happening while he was awake for the first time was bizarre enough, but... then he saw it. 

_....Himself, standing in a churchyard at night with a group of other men, rain pouring down on them as they practiced some sort of formation._

_Another flash, and he was standing in front of an angry crowd of drunken males on a college campus, talking to them, buying enough time for a frightened man - Myles Cooper - his mind supplied the information, though the name meant nothing to him - to get away._

_Then, a young Frenchman embracing him..._

_And then fortifying a camp as the scent of death permeated the air..._

_John Laurens kissing him passionately..._

_And then jumping in front of a bullet..._

_Being thrown off of a cliff..._

_A man he knew yet didn't looked him in the eyes as he was led to his own hanging..._

_British soldiers running at him with bayonets, and he ruthlessly fought back..._

_And then an impossible palace under the sea, glowing like the gates of paradise..._

_Someone's pistol pressed against the back of his skull..._

_And then a wedding..._

_His father cradling him in his arms, crying..._

_And then hundreds of thousands of people celebrating in the streets..._

_The piercing cry of a newborn baby..._

_And then..._

_And then..._

**_And then—_ **

He gasped as pain surged through him and snapped out of it, coming back to his senses to see Rachel staring at him with clear concern, her violet eyes glowing, a raised hand sparking with electricity. 

"Did you _strike_ me with electricity? Can I do that?" He demanded, before a better question came to mind, "What was that about? The visions? That... that's never happened before... never while I've been _awake..._ I saw myself, grown up... fighting..." his head was spinning with images and memories that he didn't understand. 

She looked grim, "That is a sign we need to continue training, and you need to learn how to block out these visions when they happen." He felt unsure, and she clearly saw it on his face. "I mean it, Alexander; no good ever comes from knowing what Fate holds for you. It will bring you nothing but suffering." Somehow, he realized she knew this from experience, and that it probably had something to do with him. 

But, whatever was going to happen, if he couldn't stop it, he wanted to at least be prepared to face it when the time came. 

"Well, then what are we waiting for?" The boy grinned up at her, pushing aside the fear that had crept into his heart, and embracing the turbulent thrill he was only just beginning to discover. "I want to learn _everything_." He was hoping to get her to laugh and erase the worry that had set in her features. 

It worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The crystal in question is Labradorite, which was discovered in 1770 but I figured it might not have been well known yet only a year later, so Alexander wouldn't know the name of it, and I imagine ancient beings would have discovered and made use of it long before. The pendant described doesn't look like the one in the picture, it's only linked as a reference to the stone.
> 
> Next chapter we get to see Laurens again and possibly a couple other characters Alex is close to!


End file.
